


Connections

by KJAnderson



Series: Transmutation [3]
Category: Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Multi, Rape Aftermath, Rape/Non-con Elements, Slow Burn, Spark Sexual Interfacing (Transformers), Suggestive Themes, Threesome, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Xenophilia
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-21
Updated: 2021-02-26
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:21:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 9
Words: 25,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24832273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KJAnderson/pseuds/KJAnderson
Summary: Mikaela and Drift are back together and working forwards to something new for the both of them while Jazz navigates the strange new world he’s woken up to.Tags will be updated as the story progresses.
Relationships: Jazz/Optimus Prime, Megatron/Sentinel Prime (Transformers), Mikaela Banes/Drift | Deadlock
Series: Transmutation [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1115637
Comments: 106
Kudos: 62





	1. Jazz!

March 6, 2010

“Fuck, that was good.” Jazz stretched luxuriantly, groaning as he felt tension cables pop and loosen. There was nothing quite like an overload to remind you that you were alive. 

Bumblebee made a disgruntled noise as his head slipped off of Jazz’s thigh and thumped against the concrete floor of the medbay. 

“I could tell,” Mirage commented dryly from the other side of Jazz. He propped himself up on one elbow so that he could look over his boss at Bumblebee. “I think the entire base knows.” 

Bumblebee giggled, rolling over to cuddle up against Jazz. 

Jazz smirked and solicitously untangled a knot in the interface cabling that stretched between the three mechs. He didn’t want anybody to get a kink in their line. At least, not on accident. (On purpose was something else entirely.)

Mirage made an exasperated noise as Jazz’s idle thought flitted across the connection between them. “Why does this always have to turn into an orgy?” he asked rhetorically. Mirage knew very well why. 

Jazz chuckled lowly, the tone sending a surge of lustful current through Mirage’s interface equipment. 

Again.

Mirage groaned as his well-used spike refused to rise to the occasion. He buried his face in Jazz’s shoulder. “Enough,” he pleaded. 

“Aww ‘Raj.” Jazz raised his hand so he could cradle the back of Mirage’s head. “Don’t challenge me.” His voice was dark with promise.

Bumblebee nipped at the edge of Jazz’s thigh armor before nuzzling away the sting.

Jazz just chuckled again and reached down to stroke Bumblebee’s head as well. 

Both Bumblebee and Mirage tried to hide it, but it was obvious to Jazz that they had both missed him dearly. As they laid there, letting the build up of heat and charge slowly disperse, Jazz could feel the echo of past loneliness from both of his operatives. 

After Bumblebee and Mirage had verified Jazz’s identity, and that his mind was unaltered, they had fallen into a sensual homecoming. It wasn’t just passion; it was also reassurance for both mechs. Reassurance that Jazz was back, that he was alive, and that he was taking back his place as the leader of their little SpecOps family. It wasn’t necessarily what most would think of as love, but when you operated in the shadow world of deception and betrayal, trust was a rarer commodity than lust. 

Jazz tried to hide it from them, but he was scared. 

He had died. 

He had been dead. 

But now he wasn’t, and Jazz wasn’t entirely sure if his second chance at life was permanent or not. 

Going up against Megatron, he had known what his chances of getting out alive were. Jazz was a spy, saboteur, and even an assassin when needed. He was not a frontline warrior. Not that many frontline warriors could go toe to toe with Megatron. Still, they would have had a better chance than Jazz had had. 

Bumblebee and Mirage tightened their grip on Jazz as they caught the troubled echoes of their commander’s thoughts. 

“So, what happened while I was gone?” Jazz asked, his voice rough. 

Mirage shook his head. “It’s in the reports,” he mumbled against Jazz’s shoulder. 

“Just give me the quick overview,” Jazz pushed. 

“I wasn’t here for that. Ask Bumblebee,” Mirage demurred, despite the fact that he had been acting commander of special operations while Jazz had been dead. 

Jazz turned his head to look down at Bumblebee. “So?” 

Bumblebee rolled over so that he was looking Jazz in the face instead of looking at his feet. 

Mirage squacked inelegantly as the move pinched his cable. 

Jazz helped get everything straightened out and they settled down again. While remaining cabled together made any movements awkward, they found that they didn’t want to break the sense of closeness that came with it. Not yet. 

“At least tell me we kept the Allspark out of Megatron’s hands.” 

Jazz had died slowing Megatron down, giving Optimus a few precious moments to get away. He wasn’t under any misconceptions about how close they had come to failure. The Autobots had been too few, the Decepticons too close. The fact that they were all here at all, and that Jazz had been the only casualty, was a miracle. And Jazz wanted to know how they’d done it. 

“Yes, but...” Bumblebee trailed off. 

Jazz narrowed his eyes at Bumblebee. 

“Yes, what?” he said tightly. They’d sacrificed so much to hide the Allspark. Surely Optimus didn’t—

“No, no, no,” Bumblebee waved his hands at Jazz as he sensed the direction Jazz’s thoughts were heading in. “Megatron doesn’t have the Allspark.”

“Nobody has the Allspark,” Mirage retorted, raising his head from Jazz’s shoulder. 

“Mikaela—” Bumblebee started. 

“I refuse to believe that—” Mirage interrupted, raising his head from his comfortable spot on Jazz’s shoulder. 

“After what she did?” Bumblebee interrupted back, raising his head to face Mirage.

“How do you know it was her?”

Jazz sent a mental push through the cables that connected them. It drew Bumblebee and Mirage’s argument to a sudden halt. 

Bumblebee and Mirage looked down at Jazz. 

“Explain,” Jazz ordered.

Mirage looked at Bumblebee expectantly. 

Bumblebee visibly drooped. “The Allspark was destroyed in the battle,” he admitted. “Optimus ordered Sam to plunge it into his own spark to destroy it before Megatron could get it. Instead, the kid shoved it into Megatron’s spark. Both Megatron and the Allspark were destroyed.”

“What?” Mirage said, shocked. “That wasn’t in the report I read.”

“Optimus Prime redacted the official report pretty heavily. Said there wasn’t a reason to create a panic,” Bumblebee defended himself. “But Sam told me about it afterward. Optimus then confirmed what happened”

“It’s something Optimus would do,” Jazz pointed out with a sigh. “The self sacrificial idiot,” he grumbled to himself while Bumblebee and Mirage diplomatically pretended not to hear. 

“So, with Megatron gone, I suppose Soundwave’s in charge,” Jazz commented absently, lowering himself back down to the floor again. 

Without Megatron to mediate between them, Jazz bet that Soundwave would have defeated Starscream and taken leadership of the Decepticons. 

Jazz didn’t look forward to facing Soundwave across the battlefield. On one hand, the burden of command might slow down Soundwave’s intelligence gathering. But on the other hand, without Megatron’s erratic leadership, the extremely focused Soundwave would be able to escalate the war even further. 

Bumblebee’s uncomfortable squirm, as well as the echoes of the scout’s emotions across the cables that still connected them, brought Jazz’s attention back to the yellow mech. “Not... exactly,” Bumblebee replied cagily. 

“Don’t tell me Starscream—” 

“No, no, no,” Bumblebee interrupted quickly, waving his hands in the air in negation, despite the fact that he wasn’t even looking at Jazz. Or Mirage. “Megatron’s still in charge. At least, that’s the most current information we have.”

Jazz’s disbelief rang across the cables that connected them. “But Megatron’s dead.” 

Something was not making sense here. 

“Megatron _was_ dead,” Bumblebee explained without really explaining anything. “There’s a lot of that going on. Megatron died, then he wasn’t dead anymore. Optimus died, then he wasn’t dead anymore. You, well...” 

Jazz could fill in the blanks well enough. He had died. But now he wasn’t dead any more. 

Wait. 

Jazz’s thoughts screeched to a halt. 

“Optimus,” Jazz said, his voice tight. 

“Oh shit,” Bumblebee said in a low voice. “I mean,” he tried to backpedal as soon as he realized what he had just said out loud. 

Jazz suddenly sat up and loomed over Bumblebee’s head, now every inch the Special Operations Commander and Third-in-Command of the Autobot Army. “Explain,” he commanded flatly. 

“Megatron was trying to kill Sam, but Optimus stopped him and died in the battle,” Bumblebee said quickly, sounding like Blur with how quickly his words rammed into each other in his hurry to get them out before Jazz decided that hacking him would be quicker than talking to him. 

“It’s in the reports,” Bumblebee said lamely in response to Jazz’s unimpressed silence. 

Jazz thought about it for a moment. He could keep hounding Bumblebee and Mirage for news, or he could just read the reports, then pump them for additional details that didn’t make it into the reports. Jazz knew which process would be faster, though he didn’t like it. 

Fuck. 

“Four million years of war. Why does this suddenly start happening now?” Jazz lamented rhetorically as he slumped back down on the concrete floor. 

Mirage shrugged, somehow elegant despite the fact that the position he was in should have rendered such a movement clumsy. “The Lord High Protector has been resurrected.” Mirage ignored the glances that both mechs gave him as he referred to Megatron by his proper title. “Lord Optimus Prime has been resurrected. And now you. Next thing you know, Lord Sentinel Prime will come striding back from the Well.”

“They never did find the body, did they?” Bumblebee commented. 

“Change of subject,” Jazz snapped abruptly. 

Bumblebee and Mirage glanced at their commander, startled by the sharp tone of Jazz’s voice. 

Jazz didn’t explain. 

How could he explain that, when Jazz stood next to Optimus Prime, he never felt small, despite the fact that the other mech was nearly three times his size. 

He had always felt small in comparison to Sentinel. 

Delicate. 

Breakable. 

Jazz shook off the memories. Optimus was nothing like Sentinel. Could never be anything like Sentinel. 

Thank Primus. 

Bumblebee and Mirage were both silent, feeling the whirl of discordant emotions twine through Jazz’s previously welcoming field. 

“Jazz!”

Mirage and Bumblebee jumped as Ratchet’s voice suddenly rang out, glancing at each other in consternation. How had they missed Ratchet opening the large hangar doors? 

Jazz didn’t even twitch. “There’s room enough, if you want to join,” he said, his manner suddenly cheerfully suggestive as Ratchet stalked across the floor towards them.

“This doesn’t look like an interrogation,” Ratchet intoned as he stood ominously above the tangle of three mechs. 

Mirage glanced towards the doorway. Not that he was looking for an escape route. Honest. But he did need to make sure that the door wasn’t open anymore, and that he didn’t need to hide. The last thing he needed now was to be caught on base by a human.

“Maybe if we tried orgies more often, the Decepticons would just go ahead and give up,” the small silver mech drawled with a suggestive glint in his visor. 

Bumblebee giggled. 

“If you’re done now, unhook and get your aft up on the berth,” Ratchet ordered curtly, ignoring Jazz’s innuendo. 

“What if we’re not done?” Jazz asked innocently. Contrary to his words, however, the cords connecting him to Bumblebee and Mirage fell away, scrolling back into their storage areas on their respective mechs. 

Ratchet scoffed. “If you’re fragging, you better have passed the evaluation, which means your ass is mine. If not, all three of you are compromised and all of your asses are mine.” The dangerous glint in Ratchet’s eye reminded the three special operations mechs that Ratchet was known for being able to take down pain-delirious frontliners effortlessly. If they’d been so stupid as to catch a virus from Jazz, Bumblebee and Mirage were also screwed. 

Mirage pinged Ratchet his report of Jazz’s fitness to resume duty — at least as far as SpecOps was concerned. Jazz would still have to convince Ratchet that he was physically capable to resume duty.

“You wanna ride?” Jazz drawled suggestively, widening his legs just enough to draw the eye.

Ratchet made an annoyed sound and motioned to Jazz. “Up on the table.”

“What? No foreplay?” Jazz teased as he obediently pushed himself up off of the floor, ignoring Bumblebee’s forlorn complaint. 

“Since when do you need foreplay?” Ratchet commented wryly as Jazz jumped onto the medical berth, displaying his vigor and dexterity. 

“You obviously need some,” Jazz quipped back, ignoring Bumblebee’s silent warning to stay quiet. “Ironhide not doing it for you anymore?”

Ratchet pushed Jazz — gently — down onto his back on the berth. Contrary to his formidable reputation, Ratchet did not abuse mechs on his medberth. 

Outside of the medbay was a different story. 

Ratchet didn’t bother responding to Jazz’s provocation. “I want to monitor you as you download and incorporate the changes that have taken place in the last few years,” he said seriously, accessing Jazz’s medical port. Ratchet then plugged in his medical data pad so he could use it to monitor Jazz. 

Ratchet wished again that he had more than the rudimentary technology that he’d scavaged to set up this medbay. Aboard Optimus’ flagship he’d had a medbay full of sophisticated monitoring equipment. Here, he only had a reprogrammed pad.

Jazz followed Ratchet’s directions unhesitatingly. “It’s almost like you expect me to glitch out after reading those reports,” he said, his cheerful voice now deadly calm. 

It was a well-constructed mask of Jazz’s, but Ratchet had known Jazz long enough that he could see right through it. Jazz was nervous.

“A lot has happened,” Ratchet said neutrally. He pulled out another pad, this one from Optimus Prime, which contained the unredacted reports of everything that had happened since the team had landed on Earth. This pad was the reason why Ironhide and Sideswipe were currently guarding the building. Even heavily encrypted, Optimus Prime didn’t want this information to fall into the wrong hands. Which is why Ratchet had waited until after Mirage and Bumblebee had cleared Jazz. 

Jazz was familiar with such safety precautions. He exposed a data port in his wrist and connected the pad to his systems, which automatically started syncing and decrypting the contents. 

Ratchet watched Jazz’s vital signs carefully. 

Jazz looked up at Ratchet as the decryption proceeded. “He’s fine, isn’t he?” Jazz’s voice was unlike his usual self. 

Ratchet looked up at Jazz, drawing his attention away from the medical readout. “Who is fine?” he asked. 

“Optimus,” Jazz clarified. 

Ratchet realized that Jazz already knew something. He glanced sideways at Mirage and Bumblebee. “They told you...” They weren’t supposed to. 

Both Mirage and Bumblebee stared back at Ratchet, steadily and unapologetically.

“Not the details.” Jazz didn’t try to deny it. 

But enough to have Jazz upset already, Ratchet realized, turning back to the small silver mech. “Yes, Optimus is fine, despite his suicidally heroic impulses.”

Jazz nodded, and manually set himself into a light stasis before Ratchet could protest. Stasis would allow Jazz to process the information faster. However, he wouldn’t have an emotional reaction to the information he was digesting. Instead of processing the emotional impact concurrently, it would hit Jazz all at once when he woke up. 

Ratchet pinged a warning to Ironhide and Sideswipe and resigned himself to a long wait.


	2. The Discussion

March 8, 2010

Jazz, Bumblebee, and Ratchet walked out of the officer’s barracks, Ironhide reluctantly shuffling out behind them. Optimus Prime had ordered them all out of the building while he talked to Drift. Only Mikaela was allowed to stay. Ironhide was not pleased. Optimus Prime would be alone with a mech who very likely wanted revenge. Ironhide didn’t care if Drift was justified or not, his duty was to protect Prime. 

Ironhide closed the door with a soft thud of disapproval, because he couldn’t slam the fragile door the way he really wanted to. He turned and stood in front of the doors, arms crossed forbiddingly, the sun glinting off of transformation seams as his weapons attempted to break his control and transform. 

Whether Ironhide was doing this to prevent people from entering, or because he wanted to be close by in case something happened, Ratchet didn’t know, but he had his suspicions. He gave Ironhide a dark look. “Optimus can take care of himself,” he commented sourly. “Stop hovering and go do something productive.” 

Bumblebee, unconcerned, watched as Ratchet and Ironhide bickered. 

Meanwhile, Jazz discreetly slipped around the corner of the hangar and crouched down next to the side wall, stilling his systems so that he could hear. Not that it was too hard to hear Optimus and Drift through the thin concrete wall, even with the echoes that distorted their voices. 

Jazz distantly heard Ratchet go stomping off. Presumably he had lost his argument with Ironhide, because the other mech did not leave with Ratchet. Shortly afterwards Jazz felt Bumblebee’s light footsteps nearby. The yellow scout settled down close to Jazz, clearly intending to listen in like Jazz (and presumably Ironhide) were. 

At first there wasn’t much to hear. Both of the mechs exchanged formulaic phrases. Where had a Decepticon like Deadlock had learned such phrases, much less why had he bothered to remember them? Why would Megatron bother to teach one of his Decepticon’s court manners? Who else would have bothered? This briefly puzzled Jazz, but he set that discovery aside to be solved later.

Soon enough Jazz realized that Optimus was clearly apologizing to Drift. Something had happened between the two, and Jazz didn’t know what it had been.

Jazz wasn’t terribly surprised to hear Drift proposition Optimus. After all, Optimus Prime was a powerful mech. Many had been seduced by the power of the Primacy. As they got to know Optimus as a mech, however, even more had been seduced by his kindness. 

When Optimus Prime slipped up and admitted that Jazz was his concubine, the spy master sat up straight and focused even harder on what Optimus was saying. It was unlike the leader of the Autobots to make a mistake like that, especially after Jazz and Optimus had kept it secret for a major part of the war. 

Jazz glanced up at Bumblebee to gauge the other mech’s reaction. Bumblebee just looked back at his boss with an unsurprised look on his face. (Of course Bumblebee knew, he always knew. It wasn’t that much of a leap from knowing that Jazz and Optimus Prime were lovers to Jazz being Optimus’ concubine.)

Both Bumblebee and Jazz were startled when Drift admitted to having been Megatron’s concubine. 

Jazz’s thoughts began racing. Better than Bumblebee, he knew what was involved with being the concubine of a Prime. Or, in Drift’s case, the Lord High Protector. This had the potential to be a massive problem. Drift — Deadlock — hadn’t just been Megatron’s high-ranking protege, he’d shared sparks with Megatron. Jazz had known Megatron before the war, and Megatron had always been a wary, distrustful bastard. It had been hard enough for Optimus Prime to convince Megatron to bond with him, even with the lure of the power of the position of Lord High Protector. So, how had a mech like Deadlock been able to woo the notoriously standoffish Lord High Protector?

Before, Drift’s defection had seemed fairly straight forward. Just another case of a mech who had become disillusioned with the Decepticon cause and left. The only thing different in this case was Deadlock’s former position, and the fact that he’d somehow outrun the Decepticon Justice Division. Knowing what Jazz knew now, it was a lot more suspicious. What the hell had happened that would have made Deadlock leave Megatron? The power and influence that the position of concubine gave was not inconsiderable. Especially given that Deadlock was the concubine of a Lord High Protector who was estranged from his Prime. Deadlock would have been at Megatron’s side during his most intimate moments, and been able to influence Megatron’s actions. Not to mention that Megatron would have relied on renewing a spark bond with Drift to stay sane. 

Jazz needed more information. He also wished he could call in Prowl to help. The tactician was always better at divorcing emotion from the data in order to see the larger picture. 

Jazz absently wondered why Bumblebee didn’t seem that concerned. Then, he heard something that made his racing mind freeze. 

Inside the building Jazz could hear Drift and Optimus talking about MTO’s, but that wasn’t what had caught his attention. 

Then, he heard the word again. 

Rape. 

Jazz looked over at Bumblebee, who still didn’t look surprised. The little shit knew something. 

:You’re going to explain. Everything,: Jazz commed his scout, using the highest level of encryption available between the two of them. 

Now Bumblebee looked apprehensive. He didn’t want to get in the middle of the relationship between his commander and the head of the Autobots, but he also knew that Jazz would be relentless.

Jazz shook his head and turned his attention back to the two mechs in the hangar. The remaining conversation between Optimus and Drift, about Primal Guard contracts, was almost boring. Jazz didn’t know if he agreed with Optimus offering Drift a position in the Primal Guard, but then Jazz was also apparently missing a lot of context that hadn’t been in the report dump that he had integrated earlier. 

He had a lot to think about. 

Jazz sat there while Optimus, and later Drift and the human girl, left the building. 

He sat there, staring at nothing. 

Remembering. 

***

“A companion to help you forget your treacherous Lord Protector.” 

Jazz could feel the weight of the decorative bangles that hung from his plating as he slipped out of the shadows behind Sentinel and moved to present himself to the junior Prime. Jazz glided across the pavement smoothly, the touchup paint on his repairs had barely had time to dry and he did not want to smear it. He desperately needed to make a good impression so that the new Prime would keep him and not send him back to Sentinel. 

“May he serve you as well as he has served me.” 

Jazz felt the command buried within the powerful voice as if it was a physical force. It pushed him down as he moved into the fluid obeisance due a Prime. 

***

March 15, 2010

“Get away from there!” Ratchet snapped impatiently. 

“Get away from where?” Jazz asked, pretending like he hadn’t been attempting to palm one of Ratchet’s data pads from his workstation while the medic’s back was turned. 

Jazz would normally wait until Ratchet was away from his office before he hacked into Ratchet’s files, but the base was so small that there wasn’t really anywhere else for the medic to go. Ratchet also started securing all of his records in his subspace while he slept instead of locking them in his office, like he would do if they were stationed at a proper base. This gave Jazz very few options when it came to gathering information. (Jazz used to be capable of picking Ratchet’s subspace pockets. After Ratchet had caught Jazz in the act, it had started a mini arms race between the two mechs. One which Jazz was currently behind in.)

Jazz clasped his hands behind his back, acting innocent as he asked, “So, what are you up to?”

Ratchet turned back to his work table with a huff. He wasn’t fooled by Jazz’s innocent act at all. “Trying to keep the substandard shit we have operational enough not to kill any of you,” he replied acidly. 

Jazz didn’t take Ratchet’s tone personally. He’d seen the reports of what had happened while he had been dead. Between the lack of a steady supply line and the pressure of keeping the leader of the Autobots alive, Ratchet was being pushed to the limits of his skills. It was a miracle that nobody else had—

Jazz ruthlessly shut down that line of thought. Instead, his mind turned his focus to why he was trying to filch Ratchet’s records. Jazz needed to know what had gone on between Drift and Optimus. He needed to know if what Optimus had said was true. What damage—

Jazz cut off his line of thought again, not wanting to spiral down into old memories that he’d thought had been well buried. 

“Besides, that’s not why you’re here, and we both know it,” Ratchet said, picking up a welder and turning over a piece of scrap metal.

“People aren’t telling me something, and I need to know,” Jazz admitted, lithely hopping up onto the medbay berth so he wasn’t looking up at Ratchet anymore. (Not that Ratchet was hard on the eyes, from any angle.) Jazz propped his hands on his hips and gave Ratchet his best ‘I am in command here’ look. Not that it worked very well on a mech that wasn’t even looking at him. 

“Snoop,” Ratchet said, but his voice was without heat. “Let people keep their secrets. It’s not your business.” 

“Third-in-Command and Head of Special Operations,” Jazz said seriously. “Anything that could compromise Optimus’ ability to command the Autobots is my concern. Even if it’s his personal life. Especially if it’s his private life. And, as Optimus’ concubine, it doubly concerns me.” 

That Jazz admitted that last out loud surprised Ratchet. As Optimus’ doctor, he was one of the few who knew about Jazz’s position in Prime’s household. It was impossible for them to hide the effect that their relationship had on the Prime’s spark after the stress it had been through with Megatron’s betrayal. 

“I thought you would have pinned Bumblebee down about everything you missed,” Ratchet replied, deflecting the subject, but not very well. 

Ratchet knew that Jazz had a point. As the leader of the Autobots and the ruler of Cybertron, Optimus Prime had no secrets from his closest advisors. Any action that Optimus Prime took could have serious repercussions for the Autobots, and for Cybertron as a whole. If Optimus Prime’s ability to make decisions was compromised, his closest advisors needed to know so that they could compensate for it. 

As Optimus Prime’s Prime Concubine, Jazz was the closest to the Prime that a mech could be, aside from his Lord High Protector. Even if Optimus had never publicly acknowledged Jazz’s position, Jazz still wielded a significant amount of political as well as military influence. 

The slagger was correct, he had a right to know. But that didn’t mean that Ratchet had to be the one to tell him.

“He’s hiding from me with Drift and the girl,” Jazz said sourly. Bumblebee had hidden behind Optimus’ order to him to protect the girl. Jazz couldn’t very well interrogate the mech with Drift around, even by comms. 

“Ask Optimus, then.” 

Jazz’s silence was long and obvious. “Optimus isn’t talking to me,” he eventually admitted, as if everybody on base didn’t already know.

“You’re good at getting people who don’t want to talk to talk,” Ratchet commented, and he wasn’t just referring to Jazz’s interrogation skills. Jazz’s naturally outgoing nature put most mechs quickly at ease. They’d end up talking shit with the small silver mech without seeming to realize the fact that he was pumping them for information. 

“He didn’t seem too happy to see me,” Jazz said with an attempt at wry humor that fell flat. 

Ratchet put down his tools and turned to face Jazz, his face serious. “Optimus is absolutely ecstatic to see you. His EM field was blinding as soon as you sat up.”

“He’s not acting like it,” Jazz sulked. Right now he didn’t feel like the big bad head of Special Operations, and he didn’t like the feeling. 

“You’re not going to fix your relationship by avoiding him,” Ratchet advised. “Hunt him down and talk to him.” 

As if it was easy. “Optimus’ changed,” Jazz said as an excuse. 

“We all change,” Ratchet replied. “We all adapt. We all transform. Talk to him and you’ll find that he’s changed less than you think.”

“But...” Jazz said hesitantly, “what if he actually did it?” 

“Did what?” Ratchet asked. 

“What he and Drift were talking about in the hangar,” Jazz said in a roundabout way. He didn’t actually want to say it out loud. 

Ratchet had a pretty good idea what Jazz was referring to, but he wasn’t inclined to give the mech an easy out. Jazz would have to reconcile with Optimus eventually, and Ratchet wasn’t going to enable Jazz to keep avoiding the issue. 

“Talk to Optimus,” Ratchet said instead. 

“Can’t I just look at the reports?” Jazz wheedled. 

“They’re sealed.”

“I’m the third-in-command,” Jazz tried to exert his authority, which was normally higher than Ratchet’s. 

“By Optimus Prime,” Ratchet countered, not backing down. 

Optimus Prime’s authority trumped Jazz’s. 

Jazz was silent. 

Ratchet eyed the mech for a few moments before turning back to his welding. 

“And DON’T touch that pad,” Ratchet snapped suddenly. 

Jazz pulled his hand back like he’d been burned. 

Ratchet could feel Jazz’s glower like a physical force on his plating. “Why are you still here?” he asked gruffly.

Jazz hesitated. “Optimus Prime offered Drift a position in his Primal Guard.” 

“I’d heard,” Ratchet said. He was sure that everybody on base knew by now. “Good for him.”

“You don’t think that Optimus is making a mistake?” Jazz asked, probingly. 

Ratchet set down his wielder again. It seemed like he wouldn’t be able to focus on his work until Jazz left, and Jazz wouldn’t leave until he was done talking. 

It was times like this that Ratchet really wished Rung was here. The psychiatrist actually had the training to deal with shit like this.

“No,” Ratchet said flatly, turning to look at Jazz.

Jazz was now sitting on the berth, curled forward and hugging his knees protectively. 

Ratchet debated for a moment before simply replying, “Drift is a good person.” 

“Ironhide isn’t too happy about it,” Jazz pointed out.

Ratchet knew that was an understatement. “Ironhide used to be in the Primal Guard. He’s sore that Optimus is allowing Drift in, but not him.” Ratchet had only had to listen to Ironhide ranting about it for the last few days. Fortunately, Ironhide had kept his complaints to comms, because Optimus did not need the stress of having his friend publicly at odds with him. “He’ll just have to suck it up and deal with it.” Ratchet had told Ironhide the same thing, though not so diplomatically. 

Jazz was quiet for a few minutes, but Ratchet could tell he wasn’t done. 

Jazz looked up at Ratchet. “What did Optimus do to Drift?” he asked again, his face stripped of all masks, as open and honest as Ratchet had ever seen it. It was a look that very few had seen, even among Optimus’ most intimate friends. 

“You need to talk to Optimus,” Ratchet said, keeping his voice low and even. 

“What if he’s changed?” Jazz said. 

Ratchet could hear the tremor in Jazz’s voice. It was something that he hadn’t heard from the proud and confident mech. Not since before the war, when a young Optimus Prime had called Ratchet into his quarters to tend to his new body servant. 

“Not that much,” Ratchet tried to reassure Jazz. 

As Optimus’ Concubine, Jazz may have been entitled to know about Optimus’ health, but Ratchet was determined to protect Drift’s privacy. He knew that Jazz would understand once he knew, if only the stubborn mech would just talk to his Prime. 

“Whatever,” Jazz mumbled, jumping off of the berth and sulking his way out of the medbay. 

Ratchet watched as Jazz’s attitude changed like magic as the smaller mech crossed the building. As the silver mech left the hangar the swagger was back in his step and he called out a cheerful greeting to Sideswipe as the red mech passed. 

Ratchet shook his head and got back to work.


	3. Mikaela’s Happy Spot

March 15, 2010

Mikaela dipped the sponge she was holding into a bucket of soapy water. 

While the soap wasn’t up to the same standard as what she’d had at the warehouse, it would have to do. This was the first time since Barricade’s attack that Mikaela had had the opportunity, much less the energy, to give Drift a bath. 

A trickle of sweat worked its way annoyingly down the back of Mikaela’s neck. Her hair was piled up on top of her head to keep it out of the way, but wisps had still escaped and plastered themselves to her neck. Despite how bitterly cold the early spring nights still were, the daytime sun was warm. 

Mikaela would have preferred to have something better than buckets of cold water filled from a hose out behind hangar five, but she couldn’t deny that the rare privacy was nice. While Mikaela had been living in the on-base apartment, she had rarely seen anybody aside from her father, Bumblebee, and Wheelie. Now that she was sleeping in the same hangar as six other mechs, she rarely had a moment alone. 

Mikaela wouldn’t have it any other way. She didn’t understand why, but being surrounded by Cybertronians felt like coming home. Even more so than when CPS had let Mikaela’s aunt take her home after her father had been caught that last time. 

Mikaela spent most of her day in Ratchet’s medbay. Though Ratchet prohibited her from doing any hands on work, she was able to ask Ratchet questions as she studied as well as watch Ratchet as he worked. Mikeala felt herself falling into something closer to the relationship they’d had before the Autobots had moved to Diego Garcia (except with Drift instead of Sam). 

Drift accompanied Mikaela every moment he was awake. Mikaela would have thought that Drift would be bored spending so much time in the medbay, but he just sat in the corner, meditating. Or at least, that’s what Mikaela assumed he was doing. He could just as easily be reading a book or comming Bumblebee dirty jokes. 

Drift also made sure Mikaela made it to her physical therapy appointments, and helped her run through her daily exercises. 

Mikaela wasn’t looking forward to her next checkup with the doctor. She didn’t think that they’d be too happy that she kept forgetting to take her medication. Mikaela didn’t know why, but her body just hurt less than it used to, so she just forgot. Also, Drift hadn’t been around when they had been prescribed, so he didn’t know she was supposed to take them, and Mikaela ‘forgot’ to tell him. It was easier that way. 

Mikaela also didn’t think that the doctors would be too happy to find out that she’d passed out last week. However, Mikaela wasn’t planning on telling them. That was Allspark stuff. Not human stuff. They didn't need to know. Besides, it had just been a bout of exhaustion. Nothing to worry about.

Mikaela has been disappointed that her righteous stomp out of the hangar had ended when she’d fainted just outside the medbay door. She’d finally woken up — a day later — to Ratchet, Drift, and Bumblebee leaning over her. (She had pretended not to notice Optimus peeking around the corner while Ratchet had insisted on checking her over again.)

Anyway. It had taken a week, but Mikaela had finally convinced Drift to allow her to wash him. The only facilities that the mechs on base had access to was a standpipe behind hangar five that had been fitted with a large hose. It was rudimentary, but the humans didn’t seem to understand that it was an issue. 

Mikaela begged to differ. 

Mikaela had scrounged up supplies, primarily by asking Ratchet nicely, and set up behind hangar five. This would probably be the cleanest that Drift had been since the warehouse had blown up. 

Mikaela ran her sponge across Drift’s hood, leaving behind small rivers of soapy water. Gravity pulled the water downwards, slipping into the seams between Drift’s plating, and dripping dirtily onto the ground below him. Mikaela had started with Drift’s roof so she could get it done while she had more energy, but she was already starting to feel the strain in her back and arms. She regretted that she wouldn’t have the strength to wax Drift, though she wasn’t going to admit it to him yet. He’d just make her stop where she was, even though she was almost halfway done with the wash. Besides, it’s not like the exercise would hurt her. 

Mikaela leaned over Drift, pressing her cheek against Drift’s damp, sun-warmed hood and nearly melted as she felt the energy of his spark radiating from underneath his plating. 

Mikaela hoped that Drift was also taking this moment to relax. He needed it. 

Mikaela sighed. 

“Tired?” Drift’s low voice rumbled through her body. He sounded concerned.

“No,” Mikaela denied. “Just comfortable.” 

Drift was not fooled. “Do you want to talk about it?” Drift asked. He didn’t specify what ‘it’ was, but there were a lot of things that they hadn’t talked about over the last week. To distract herself, Mikaela had thrown herself into her studies with Ratchet. 

Drift had let it go. 

So far. 

“No,” Mikaela answered, too quickly. 

“It’s safe to talk now,” Drift coaxed, gently pushing reassurance into his EM field.

“I...” Mikaela hesitated, and Drift was concerned for a second. 

Instead of continuing, however, Mikaela pushed herself up off of Drift and turned towards the standpipe. Tipping out the bucket of dirty water, Mikaela rinsed then filled the bucket again. She watched the water flow with more concentration than was really needed. 

The silence stretched between them, a string pulled taut to the breaking point. 

“Can you feel this?” Mikaela asked quietly as she wet her sponge again and went back to rinsing off Drift’s plating. Her fingers drifted gently over scratches and welts on Drift’s plating. They were the still-healing reminders of what Drift had been through. What Mikaela had been unable to save him from.

There wasn’t anything Mikaela could do about them now. 

“Yes,” Drift replied, letting Mikaela change the subject. 

“What does it feel like?” Mikaela asked. 

Drift considered various phrases to describe the dull pain that lingered from his wounds, but threw them out. Mikaela didn’t need to be reminded of that. Instead, he trilled a brief phrase in Cybertronian that encapsulated the feeling of cool water against warm plating and the soft pressure that slipped against battle-tested armor. “I don’t know how to explain it in English,” he explained. None of the translations he had tried had captured the meaning well enough.

“That was beautiful,” Mikaela breathed. The sponge dripped water down Mikalea’s leg as she stood there, momentarily motionless. 

Belatedly, Drift remembered that Mikaela could understand Cybertronian now. 

“I wish I could feel that,” Mikaela said longingly. 

“You can,” said Drift. 

“How?” 

Drift’s plating shifted, exposing a coiled up data cable. Mikaela recognized it as the same type of cable that Ratchet had used to examine her implant. 

The realization of what Drift was proposing struck her.

“That’s right,” Mikaela murmured, reaching out to touch Drift’s cable. 

Water splashed on the cable and Mikaela pulled back suddenly, realizing that the sponge was still in her hand. “Shit!” What if she’d damaged something? 

Drift chuckled lightly. “Water won’t hurt it.” 

“Still...” Mikaela dropped the sponge in the bucket and rubbed her wet hands roughly against her already damp shirt. 

Once Mikaela felt like her hands were dry enough, she reached out again. “How does this work?” Mikaela asked, touching the cable carefully. She hadn’t really taken much time to look at it during Ratchet’s checkup. “You don’t have any hands right now.” After all, Ratchet had inserted his by hand. 

Surprisingly, Mikaela found that the cable was warm to the touch. Drift’s body temperature. 

“Pull it out,” Drift coaxed Mikaela. 

“It’s okay,” Drift reassured Mikaela as she hesitated. “You won’t hurt anything.” 

“You’re not a thing,” Mikaela said, distractedly.

“Figure of speech,” Drift replied, amused by Mikaela’s reflex protest. 

Mikaela cupped the head of the cable and drew it out gently. It’s limp, silver length felt strangely alive in her hands. “Can you feel this?” she asked curiously.

“A little,” Drift said. “I’ll feel it when you plug it in.”

“That’s what my first boyfriend said,” Mikaela muttered under her breath with nervous humor.

Mikalea hadn’t been quiet enough for Drift’s sensors not to pick up what she’d said.

“Why do you say that?” he asked. 

“I didn’t... I mean... Fuck!” Mikaela exclaimed, flustered. It was embarrassing. How was she going to explain that?

The same way she explained everything when an uncomfortable question came up. “I was comparing how you encouraged me to plug in your cable to how my first boyfriend tried to convince me to let him insert his penis,” Mikeala said, as clinically as she could. 

“It’s not very comparable,” Drift replied after taking a moment to think about it. After all, interfacing over a cable connection was different than using a spike and valve. That is, depending on how comparable Mikaela’s equipment was to a valve.

“How do you know?” Mikaela asked innocently, before the realization hit her and she blushed in mortification. After all, she had recently discovered that Cybertronians had ‘intimate parts’ and after what had happened to Drift’s... “I mean— I...” she trailed off lamely. Mikaela didn’t know what to say. 

The silver cable in her hands twitched. 

Mikaela jumped, startled, but she didn’t drop it. 

The cable slowly wound around her arm. It didn’t squeeze, but it’s warm weight enveloped her. 

Mikaela just watched it move, mesmerized.

“What’s wrong?” Drift asked, concerned. The conversation had clearly unsettled Mikaela at some point. Her proto-EM field had shifted from curious humor to embarrassed shame.

Drift’s voice snapped Mikaela out of her daze. “I thought about what happened last week,” Mikaela said tonelessly. Her hand trembled at the memory. 

Drift understood. During the past week, Mikaela’s sleep had been fragmented and restless, even after Drift had explained his viewpoint and had come to a settlement with Optimus Prime. Obviously, Mikaela was taking the situation much harder than he was. On one hand, it was not good, because Mikaela was clearly suffering the after effects. On the other hand, it was good, because it meant that she hadn't become as inured to it as Drift was. 

In any case, Drift also understood that he shouldn’t talk about it right now. He didn’t want to drag down Mikaela’s mood further than it already had been. He wanted this experience to be happy for her, like it had been before. 

Just in case, though, Drift made sure to double-check the medical protocols that dulled the input from his damaged valve were fully active. The last thing he needed was for Mikaela to connect and feel sympathetic pain. 

“If you don’t want to interface, you don’t have to,” Drift said soothingly. 

“No! I mean... yes!” A stubborn look crossed Mikaela’s face. “Let’s do this.”

“Take the end of the cable in your hand,” Drift said reassuringly. “Raise the end of it to the base of your skull, just above your neck.” Drift could insert it himself, but he didn’t want to startle Mikaela too badly. 

Mikaela unwound the cable from her arm and swept her hair to one side. 

“A little further up,” Drift guided her. 

With a small click that echoed in Mikaela’s head the connection snapped into place. 

Like before, Drift was careful to keep his firewalls fully engaged so he didn’t overwhelm Mikaela. He was surprised to notice, however, that Mikaela had some proto-firewalls that were beginning to form. Drift wasn’t entirely surprised, and made a note to mention the development to Ratchet later.

Once he determined that the connection was steady enough, Drift thinned his firewall, allowing an echo of his feelings to flow through to Mikaela, but shielding his thoughts.

Mikaela swayed on unsteady feet as the first wave of Drift flowed over her. 

Drift was warm in the sunlight, and content. The feeling reminded Mikaela of a great cat lounging in a sunbeam, and, with a giggle, she tried to share the thought with Drift. 

In her eagerness, however, Mikaela pushed too hard. In the intimacy of the connection between them, Drift was not able to hide his flinch from Mikaela, and she recoiled, almost pulling back completely. 

Drift sent Mikaela wordless reassurance. :Like this.: He demonstrated. 

Mikaela cocked her head as Drift’s voice sounded in her head, and followed his example and pushed the feeling back, this time more gently. 

Drift startled as a quick flare of near-pain interrupted Mikaela’s sharing. Drift quickly determined that it hadn’t come from him, but from Mikaela. It took him another moment to figure out what had happened. 

Mikaela had walked into the side of Drift, more than likely bruising her shin in the process, and the sensation had reverberated across the connection

Mikaela’s attention was sidetracked by the echo of her pain that she felt from Drift. The strange dual sensation of bumping-and-being-bumped sparked her curiosity. 

Mikeala knew that her Cybertronian friends were covered with armor. Armor that was somehow part of them, like skin, even if it wasn’t exactly skin, but it wasn’t removable like clothes. But knowing was different than experiencing the feeling of that armor being touched first hand. 

Mikaela swept her hand across the top of Drift’s hood. She could tell that Drift had felt it, and more strongly than she had expected. She had expected armor to be solid, for lack of a better word. Impenetrable to feeling. 

Mikaela’s hands wandered up Drift’s hood, feeling along the seam where the hood met the body panel. Curiosity burned bright in her mind. What about...

Mikaela grabbed the sponge from the bucket and squeezed it over Drift’s hood. The impact of the water was noticeable, and the splashing streams of water tickled slightly as they ran down Drift’s body. Even more strange, however, were the echoes that the sensations created in her own body. She wasn’t being touched, but she could feel it on her body. Across her chest, and even inside... 

Connected as they were, Drift could see Mikaela’s curiosity, and had a good idea what direction her explorations were going in.

Mikaela’s hands smoothed across Drift’s body, testing his reaction as she went. Emboldened by his comparative durability, she pushed harder in spots, even tapping at his plating. 

The loud thud of her knuckles on metal startled Mikaela out of the trance-like state that she had been in. “Sorry!” she blurted out, just now realizing what she had been doing. Embarrassment curled thick over the connection.

Drift just chuckled, and made sure to share his amusement with Mikaela, reinforcing that she didn’t have anything to be embarrassed about. “You didn’t hurt me.” 

A series of emotions chased across Mikaela’s face, echoed faintly through the connecting cable. “I know.” Due to the interface connection, she knew first hand. “But, what if I hit something delicate?” she asked. 

“Then you’d know not to do it again,” Drift said, with complete confidence. While there was a possibility that Mikaela could hurt him — she had enough medical knowledge to get into trouble — most of those systems were internal enough that the risk was minimal. “My body is yours to explore... and maybe someday you can return the favor.” 

Mikeala’s feelings about Drift’s innuendo were complex, but nowhere in the mix did Drift feel revulsion, disgust, or unwillingness. 

“I’d like that,” Mikaela said simply, after a long pause. 

The mood broken, Mikaela returned to scrubbing the last of the dried soap off of Drift, occasionally distracted by the physical sensations she created in Drift and the ripple effect that they had on her. 

Meanwhile, Drift relaxed. The sun was warm on his plating and Mikaela’s pleasantly undemanding feelings traveled back and forth across the cable.

***

Bumblebee crept around the side of hangar five. 

Jazz was asleep, but Bumblebee knew that he would wake up soon. Then Jazz would be back on the hunt for Bumblebee. 

According to a suspiciously helpful Ironhide, Mikaela and Drift were behind the hangar. So Bumblebee was running for cover.

When Bumblebee saw what was going, however, he stopped in his tracks. 

Drift was parked behind the building. That was innocent enough. 

But Mikaela! Mikaela was sitting on the ground next to Drift, resting against his rear tire. Based on the bottles, towels, and bucket surrounding them, she had been washing Drift. (Mikaela hadn’t offered to wash him! Bumblebee hadn’t had more than a hose off, or an automatic car wash in longer than he cared to contemplate. He let the quick stab of jealousy pass.) 

Whatever Mikaela had been doing to Drift, she was clearly done now. She was curled sideways, practically cuddling up against Drift. Sponge in hand, she was stroking repetitive circles across Drift’s plating. 

As Bumblebee looked closer he realized that Mikaela looked dazed and not quite aware of what she was doing. 

At first, Mikaela’s mindlessness concerned Bumblebee. At least, until he spotted the cable connecting Drift and Mikaela. 

That helped explain Mikaela’s reaction.

Bumblebee strolled up to Drift and sat down close to the other mech. Passive sensors swept across Bumblebee briefly as Drift checked him out.

:She hit a sweet spot?: Bumblebee asked Drift lightly over comms. 

:Sympathetic feedback,: Drift explained shortly. 

Bumblebee nodded. That would explain it. 

While interfacing through a cable, sympathetic feedback caused heightened arousal as each mech ‘felt’ the same sensation twice over — or more. Jazz was a master at manipulating a mech’s sensors in such a way.

Occasionally, though, sensations didn’t quite translate accurately between partners. It usually happened between mechs with different root forms. 

When cabling with non-mechs the results were even more likely to be... unpredictable. 

:I’m assuming it’s good feedback at least,: Bumblebee commented curiously, filing away the spot for future reference. (One never knew what information might come in handy.) 

:Yes, but I’m not sure how,: Drift commented with open honesty. :The arousal doesn’t feel sexual, but she is enjoying it.: 

Bumblebee could believe that. Mikaela hadn’t even noticed his arrival. 

:I was going to give her another minute,: Drift said.

:Unfortunately, Skids and Mudflap have heard too many stories from us about how skilled Mikaela is at detailing a mech, and Ironhide is only able to keep them busy for so long,: Bumblebee explained apologetically. :They’ll be here soon.: 

Bumblebee didn’t need to explain the cheerful mayhem that the two mechs brought with them wherever they went. He knew neither Mikaela nor Drift would appreciate the interruption. 

Drift shifted slightly on his axles, but froze as Mikaela made an incoherent objection. 

:Let me try,: Bumblebee offered with a smile. 

Drift’s EM field flickered his agreement as Bumblebee reached out and gently scooped Mikaela into his hands. The sponge Mikaela had been holding fell, ignored, to the ground. 

Mikaela made another incoherent grumble of protest, but from her field Bumblebee could tell that she was content, if a bit disgruntled. Probably from having her happy time ended, Bumblebee thought with a snicker. 

Drift must have also reassured Mikaela reassurance through the cable, because she settled quickly. 

:Do you want to wake her up?: Bumblebee asked. Carrying Mikaela while she was cabled with Drift would be awkward. 

:No, her body needs the rest.: Drift replied, then started his transformation sequence, much to Bumblebee’s surprise. Normally, a mech wouldn’t even consider transforming while cabled. There was a high risk of something going wrong and sensitive parts getting pinched, or worse. 

Somehow, Drift did it. 

Bumblebee was impressed.

Bumblebee carefully passed Mikaela over to Drift. 

Mikaela settled into Drift’s hands with a sigh. Drift could tell that she wasn’t sleep, but neither was she awake. 

:I’ll come with,: Bumblebee declared helpfully. 

:Still avoiding Jazz?: Drift asked perceptively. It hadn’t been too hard for him to figure out what was going on between the two mechs. After all, it was a small base. 

Bumblebee was silent, but the brush of his field was faintly frustrated. 

Drift wisely didn’t push the subject. 

The two mechs strolled back to hangar three in silence. 

:I bet you can’t wait until Mikaela discovers what’s under the hood,: Bumblebee commented suggestively as Drift walked past him into the building. 

To Bumblebee’s disappointment Drift’s composure didn’t waver. Instead, the white mech shot him a knowing grin, saying nothing.


	4. A Tough Conversation

Bumblebee had taken Mikaela to her physical therapy appointment and had convinced Drift to get some recharge in. However, shortly after he laid down, a previously hidden EM field unfurled not far away. 

Drift wasn’t surprised. He had wondered how long it would take.

Carefully hiding any signs of impatience or tiredness, Drift sat back up. “Hello,” he said calmly, turning to face the silver mech. 

“You’re a popular guy, my mech,” Jazz said smoothly. He strolled casually up to the other mech, his field outwardly friendly and even, as if he was only there to greet the newest member of Optimus’ team. 

_Nothing to see here,_ Jazz’s body language said. 

Drift didn’t trust it.

“If you say so,” Drift replied neutrally. He could think of half a dozen reasons why the head of Special Operations would want to talk to him, and none of them were good.

Jazz flashed a grin. His visor glinted as he stopped a couple of steps away from Drift. 

Jazz had chosen his moment well. Drift was unarmed, his swords having been laid aside in preparation for sleeping. While he could still reach them, the extra microseconds it would take would leave him vulnerable to any attack from Jazz. 

Instead Drift rose to his feet and stood, matching Jazz’s outwardly relaxed posture. The position subtly emphasized the height difference between the two, not that Jazz seemed to care. He didn’t need to be intimidated when he’d taken down larger and more highly trained mechs than Drift. 

“So,” Jazz drawled, “Optimus is reestablishing the Primal Guard. And you’re its first member.” 

It wasn’t a question, so Drift remained stoically silent. He could practically feel the other mech observing and dissecting his every movement.

“The Primal Guard was disbanded because they were just as loyal to Megatron as they were to Optimus Prime. More so, in some cases,” Jazz observed, his voice silkily sly. 

It was a subtle threat, but not a very well hidden one. Drift could read between the lines easily enough. 

“Megatron doesn’t want me,” Drift said, his voice even. The truth tore at his spark. “He sent me away.” 

Drift was unable to hide the bitterness in his voice. 

Jazz sneered. “Who are you trying to fool?” 

Drift didn’t bother to answer as Jazz quickly closed the space between them. 

With an interrogator’s instinctive skill, Jazz went for the soft underbelly of Drift’s emotions. “You are his concubine!” Jazz snarled up in the larger mech’s face. 

“ _Was_ his concubine,” Drift clarified in a dull voice. He stood straight, his gaze carefully averted from his superior’s. Because, while Jazz may not technically be his superior as far as the Autobot army was concerned, he was still Drift’s superior in the Prime’s household. Jazz held a place closer to the Prime than Drift, and he should take care not to aggravate the more powerful mech. 

“Don’t lie to me!” Jazz snapped with a harsh sweep of his hand. “I know what that relationship means, what it entails, there’s no way he’d throw you away.”

In a perfect world, Jazz’s words would have been correct. Now, they penetrated the deep vein of pain that Drift had been hiding for hundreds of thousands of years. Since Megatron... Since Turmoil...

“He did!” Drift snapped harshly, his field crackling with agitation before he managed to rein it back. 

Jazz watched Drift closely, a predator smelling weakness. “Really,” he drawled, disbelief thick in his voice. 

“He assigned me to Turmoil!” Drift rasped, his pain and grief slipping free in his voice. “He knew what Turmoil does to—” Drift cut himself off, harshly forcing himself to back under control, no matter how tenuous it was. 

“Megatron does not want me back,” Drift whispered rawly. 

“Prove it,” Jazz challenged, somewhat callously. 

“How?” 

“Tell me about Turmoil,” Jazz ordered, pushing further. 

It was hard for Drift to talk about. “Turmoil was exceptionally cruel. The mechs under his command either became as cruel as he, or died.” Drift could feel the ghostly sting of the lash across his plating. Just a memory, but a vivid, often repeated one. 

“Cruel?” Jazz sneered harshly. “You are Deadlock!” he said, as if that explained everything. And, to an Autobot, it probably did. Deadlock had a reputation among the Autobots, and it was not a nice one. But then, it couldn’t be a nice one. Deadlock had been a Decepticon, and the enemy. In the us vs them mindset of war, enemies were ‘bad’ while allies were ‘good’. Otherwise, mechs might start questioning why they were fighting. That’s how treason started. So propagandists on both sides perpetuated the narrative. 

“Convince me,” Jazz pushed harder. He had the upper hand, and they both knew it.

“I...” Drift’s throat worked as his vocalizer spit static. Frustratingly, he couldn’t say it. How did you put into words the betrayal? The humiliation? 

Would Jazz even trust anything he said?

Instead of speaking, Drift turned, tilting his head down to uncover his cranial port. Belatedly, he knelt, making it easier for the mech now standing behind him. 

Jazz reached forward and fingered Drift’s port. 

Drift repressed a shudder at the casually intimate caress. He couldn’t react. Any reaction would invite more of the same.

“Someone’s been here recently,” Jazz remarked, his voice calm as his fingers stroked over the minute scratches surrounding Drift’s port. The scratches weren’t large, and they’d go away on their own, but they were evidence that somebody had connected to Drift recently. The only reason this port would have been used was if Drift had been interrogated, but Jazz knew the mechs who would have performed the interrogation, and none of them would have been so sloppy. 

Drift stayed silent. 

“Didn’t think Bumblebee would be this careless,” Jazz remarked as he pulled out his own cord, prepared to dive into Drift’s consciousness to fetch the information that the mech was so unwilling to say out loud. 

“It wasn’t Bumblebee,” Drift mumbled, driven to defend one of the few mechs who treated him decently, despite their rocky start. 

Jazz paused, one hand on Drift’s shoulder, surprised. “Who, then?” Mirage was the only other SpecOps officer on the planet right now who Jazz would entrust with an interrogation. (Hound didn’t have the temperament.) It could have been Ironhide, but Jazz didn’t understand why he would have done it if SpecOps was available. 

In the end, though, the question was academic. Jazz was still going to question Drift.

“Optimus Prime,” Drift said flatly, his voice carefully stripped of emotion.

Jazz froze. That was the last name he had expected to hear. “Say that again,” he demanded. 

The weight of Jazz’s hand was heavy on the back of Drift’s neck as Jazz’s hand flexed. Drift was acutely aware of his vulnerable position, and how deadly the head of Special Operations could be. “Optimus Prime interrogated me,” Drift repeated clearly. 

He meant it. Jazz could tell from Drift’s field. Not that it was impossible to lie to him, but there were too many gaps in the ‘unredacted’ reports Jazz had been given. Too many gaps shaped like Drift. Too many gaps carefully danced around with polite euphemisms. Jazz had thought that Drift was the cause of those gaps. Turns out, Drift was, but not in the way Jazz had been thinking. Other possibilities were starting to come to light. 

“Optimus Prime doesn’t have the training,” Jazz said numbly. Sure, the Prime had been outfitted with the strongest firewalls Autobot medics could design. Jazz had even tested them. But Optimus didn’t have the spark required to dive deep into another mech's mind, find and pull loose what was needed, then return. At least, with his mind whole. Optimus was too empathetic. He wasn’t capable of the emotional distance required. 

Besides, Jazz didn’t want Optimus’ bright spark to suffer the scars.

“What did he do?” Jazz breathed. 

Jazz’s hand had gone limp on his neck. However, Drift did not let himself relax. 

Drift considered his options. There weren’t many. Hiding the truth wasn’t an option. Even with his firewalls the head of Special Operations could rip the truth from his mind. For the same reason, he couldn't lie. So, Drift would have to tell Jazz the truth. 

But, that presented its own problem. Jazz had no reason to trust his word. None of them did. The word of a Decepticon defector was worth less than nothing against the word of an Autobot, especially when the mech being accused was the Prime. 

Jazz also wouldn’t allow Drift to avoid the topic. The conversation had gone too far. 

The best thing that Drift could do was present clear, unmistakable proof. Maybe then he would get out of this with his life, and his mind, intact.

Fortunately, Ratchet hadn’t gotten around to fixing him yet.

Carefully, Drift leaned forward, out from underneath Jazz’s lax hold, being careful to telegraph every movement before he made it. 

Slowly, he turned on his knees to face the other mech. 

Jazz stood there. Unknown to Drift, his mind continued to whirl through possibilities. 

Drift parted his thighs and leaned back until his head rested on the edge of the berth. He ruthlessly suppressed the memory of his last conversation with Prime. This situation was already testing the limits of his emotional control. 

The snap of Drift manually releasing his interface cover was loud in the silent room. Jazz watched blankly, his cord still in his hand, as Drift pulled the panel aside. 

Drift was careful not to look down, or to look at Jazz’s face, though he could feel the other mech’s attention move between his thighs. 

Drift tilted his hips a bit more to give Jazz a clearer view. 

It took Jazz a few minutes to recognize what he was seeing. 

There was a gaping hole between Drift’s thighs. 

For a wound, it was too clean. Someone, likely Ratchet, had washed away any energon and removed any damaged parts left behind. The inside glinted with a coating of nanite gel. Jazz recognized the gel as one that was used so that replacement parts would bond better to the existing structure later, when they were not immediately available. 

Jazz couldn’t tear his eyes from the gory sight.

“Optimus did that?” Jazz asked in a small voice, afraid of the answer.

Drift nodded, though he wasn’t sure that the other mech noticed. “He was not aware that I was a Decepticon deserter. When he learned that, he wanted me interrogated, and insisted on doing it himself.” Drift left the rest unsaid.

Both mechs were only vaguely aware of the door to the officer’s quarters rolling aside, Ratchet’s large form filling silhouetted against the midday sky. When Drift’s interface cover had been opened Ratchet had been alerted by the medical protocols he had installed for the duration of Drift’s recovery.

“I told you no—” Ratchet started what was clearly a rebuke aimed at Drift.

However, he swiftly cut himself off when he noticed Drift on the floor with Jazz standing above him and staring downward. 

“Jazz,” Ratchet’s low growl was threatening as he stalked across the room. He didn’t know what was happening, but he was determined to put a stop to it. 

Jazz looked up at Ratchet, an agonized look on his face. 

It stopped Ratchet in his tracks. 

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Jazz asked plaintively. He backed away from Drift, stepping on his own cord, which he had dropped at some point during the confusion. 

Jazz wasn’t unfamiliar with the aftermath of rape. It was an all too common side effect of war. But, usually it was done by Decepticons or traitorous Autobots, mechs who could be safely disposed of. Not...

Ratchet recognized the frenzy that was building behind Jazz’s deceptively calm facade. The silver mech was going to run, and Ratchet wouldn’t be able to catch him. 

Ratchet hurriedly commed Prime, hoping that their leader would be able to intercede. Optimus, however, was busy with something and Ratchet’s comm was routed to Jolt instead. There would be no help coming.

Jazz backed up further, smoothly gathering up his loose cord and spooling it away. “Just a little misunderstanding,” he said lightly, to no one in particular. “No hard feelings.” He couldn’t face either one of the mechs. Drift, still sitting on the floor, or Ratchet, practically breathing fire in the mech’s defense.

It was not an unfamiliar situation, but one he was usually on the other side of.

Ratchet was unable to move quickly enough to block Jazz’s sudden dash for the open door. 

With a quick transformation, literally on the fly, Jazz squealed his way out of the building and down the tarmac, just avoiding Sideswipe. 

The curious warrior poked his head in the door to see if anything was going on that he needed to get involved with, but backed away quickly as Ratchet turned around with a feral snarl and an upraised wrench. 

Ratchet turned back to Drift, who hadn’t moved during the brief confrontation between Jazz and Ratchet. “Anything I need to know about?” Ratchet asked, even though the monitoring software he’d installed wasn’t indicating anything wrong.

Drift shook his head. 

“Close up, then,” Ratchet ordered gruffly. 

Drift complied silently. 

Ratchet checked the schedule, which showed that Drift was currently supposed to be in his recharge cycle. “Do you need a code to help you sleep?” he asked. It wasn’t unusual for mechs who had recently gone through trauma to have issues recharging, even veterans. 

Drift shook his head silently. 

“Jazz isn’t going to be back until he’s screwed his head on straight, and after that he’s not going to touch you,” Ratchet tried to reassure Drift. Not that Ratchet would tell Drift why he knew that. That was Jazz’s secret to tell. “You’re pushing your limits as it is. You need to recharge.”

Drift looked like he was going to decline, and Ratchet didn’t even let him reply before he played his trump card. “Or I can call Mikaela to come sit on you.”

Drift still shook his head. Ratchet could tell that Drift wanted Mikaela close, his bonded guardian protocols were probably screaming at having his charge so far away from him while a mech who had been hostile to him was on the loose. 

Which was fine, because Ratchet had already commed Bumblebee. 

“Drift!” Right in time, Mikaela jogged through the door, Bumblebee not far behind her. 

Ratchet discreetly retreated as Mikaela descended on Drift with a thousand questions that the mech was not ready to answer. Still, he gave Ratchet a grateful look before the medic slipped out of the building, sliding the door shut behind him.


	5. Meeting the Other Half

It was the middle of the night when Optimus Prime received Drift’s polite notification. He could ignore it, but he was already wrapping up his work for today (earlier than he normally would, due to Ratchet’s meddling). 

Optimus gave Jolt an appreciative nod, releasing his assistant to go back to his own berth, before checking the message.

The topic of Drift’s message was, unsurprisingly, Mikaela. Apparently she was having an ‘episode’ and Drift was informing Optimus Prime so that, if he wanted to, he could come and observe. 

Optimus’ steps quickened, eager to discover what vestige of the Allspark remained.

He met Ratchet outside the door to hangar three. Optimus assumed that the other mech had also been alerted by Drift. Together the two mechs entered. 

The cavernous building was quiet. Ironhide lay on his berth, clearly in recharge, while Drift was sitting on the ground next to the berth he shared with Bumblebee, focusing intently. Mikaela was sleeping on a mattress that had probably been filched from her apartment, along with a pile of blankets to keep out the chill.

Optimus wasn’t able to distinguish what it was about Mikaela that had alerted Drift, but he trusted the white mech’s judgement. He felt Ratchet’s powerful scanners wash across the room. 

The sensor disturbance caused Ironhide to wake with a warrior’s swiftness. Seeing the mechs congregating around Mikaela, he swung to his feet and joined them. 

:What’s going on?: Ironhide asked on a short range comm band. 

Ratchet ignored him, kneeling down next to Drift. 

:She’s having a dream. Or a vision,: Drift answered before turning his attention to Ratchet. :You should be able to get more detailed scans than I.:

Ratchet shook his head. :Something is obviously going on, her brain is too active for her to be sleeping. I might be able to tell more if I connect.:

Drift laid a hand on Ratchet’s wrist to hold the other mech back. :I wouldn’t advise it.:

:Why?: Optimus Prime broke into the conversation. 

Drift glanced up at the large mech. :During her dreams Mikaela said that she talks to Primus,: he explained. He looked back down at Mikaela. :I don’t know how receptive _he_ would be to company.: 

:She’s saturated in Allspark radiation,: Ratchet commented. Ratchet wasn’t much of a believer in Primus, so he didn’t have any comment on the theological implications, but he would defer to Drift’s judgement. 

:Should we take her to the medbay?: Ratchet asked, addressing Drift. 

Drift hesitated for a moment. :No. I’d prefer not to,: he answered. 

Ironhide grumbled. “Just take her, Ratchet,” he said brusquely, ignoring the looks of disapproval from the other mechs because of how loud he had been. He just wanted to get back to sleep.

:I don’t want to run the risk of waking her up before she is ready,: Drift said in a carefully neutral voice. 

:She will stay here,: Optimus declared, defusing any potential argument. :Ironhide, go back to your rest. Drift, Ratchet, and I will watch Mikaela.:

Ironhide shrugged and turned away. Deities and mystical energy fields weren’t a problem he could solve. Best leave it for the others. 

As Ironhide settled himself on his berth again, falling immediately back into recharge, Optimus Prime sat down next to Ratchet and Drift. 

:How long should we expect this to take?: Optimus asked, careful to exclude Ironhide from the comm conversation. 

:Could be an hour. Could be all night,: Drift replied. 

:She needs more sleep to be healthy,: Ratchet commented. 

Drift just shrugged without comment. He didn’t have a way to control it, all he could do was wait. Ratchet would discover that himself soon enough. 

Optimus settled down to wait, pulling out a pad to work on. At least he could read though some paperwork in the meantime. 

:Reschedule your morning meetings,: Ratchet’s curt comment interrupted Optimus as he was finishing the first page of the consolidated reports that had come in that day from Ultra Magnus. (By now they were a few weeks old, but they were better than no news.) 

Optimus was conscious of Ratchet’s glare. Knowing that, if he didn’t, Ratchet would go around him again and do it himself, Optimus reluctantly pinged Jolt. Judging by the grogginess of the other mech’s voice, he had already been deep in recharge. With the promise of additional recharge the next day, however, he quickly started the process of rearranging Optimus Prime’s morning schedule.

***

“Not again.”

Just when she thought things couldn’t get even weirder... but Mikaela couldn't say that she was surprised. 

She was sitting on his lap, which was normal. What wasn’t normal — for whatever standard of normal existed inside her head — was her Escher-esque surroundings. Instead of an indistinct haze, the enveloping clouds were every shade of purple, from the darkest grape to the lightest lavender, shot through with electric blue lightning. Down was sideways and up was flat.

Mikeala leaned back against the solid body behind her in an effort to get her vision to stop spinning. 

Mikaela’s seat shook with a dark chuckle that vibrated through her chest. 

She knew who this was, and it wasn’t Primus. 

“No, I’m not.”

“Motherfucker!” Mikaela tried to jump off his lap, only to be caught around the waist by one strong arm. 

“Don’t fall,” Unicron purred in a deep voice. Mikaela could tell that his mouth was next to her head; she could feel her hair moving as he spoke. 

“I won’t fall,” Mikaela snapped back crossly. After all, she’d been in this space enough times that she knew how it worked. 

“You haven’t been here with me, yet,” Unicron replied to her unspoken thought. He didn’t even politely pretend that he couldn’t hear her.

“Rude,” Mikaela huffed, but stopped struggling. It wouldn’t help. Not here, and not with the kind of connection they had. 

Besides, the unstable landscape was starting to get to her again. 

Mikaela squeezed her eyes shut in an attempt to drive back the vertigo and regain some control over her surroundings.

Mikaela felt Unicron’s arm encircle her body, his hand sliding up her chest until it encompassed her chin, tilting her head backward on his shoulder. The sharp, cool tips of his talons rested lightly on her cheek. He held her firmly. 

Mikaela didn’t want to admit that it helped with the vertigo, but she couldn’t hide her gradual relaxation from Unicron. 

“It is your mind’s attempt to understand,” Unicron explained. “Embrace the chaos. It is unavoidable.” 

Mikaela grit her teeth. “I’ll never join you!” she spat the words out forcefully, though she was conscious of her precarious position imprisoned — cradled — in Unicron’s arms. 

Unicron hummed contemplatively, unphased by Mikaela’s declaration. The low sound rumbled through Mikaela’s chest. “You already have.” 

Mikaela knew he was correct but she didn’t want to make it that easy for him. “Not yet,” she countered. 

Unicron was not distracted. “Yes, you have.” He rubbed his cheek against the side of Mikaela’s head, like a large cat marking its territory. “Would you really leave?” He asked rhetorically. “Give up the power? Give up being somebody important? Give up Drift?” 

Mikaela squirmed as Unicron’s words deftly touched on her selfish desires and innermost fears. The need to be powerful. To be accepted. To be loved. The yearning felt like a large hole in her chest. It wasn’t noble self-sacrifice, but greedy grasping, and she resented that Unicron was picking at her deepest insecurities. 

Despite that, she felt as safe in his hands as she did in Primus’, and it confused her even as it comforted her. 

Unicron grinned as Mikaela slowly worked her way towards the final conclusion. She would learn. 

“I have to admit,” he mused aloud. “This is going smoother than I thought it would.” Unicron sounded disappointed.

Mikaela jumped on the change of topic. Anything so she didn’t have to explore her feelings any more. “What do you mean by that?” 

“After the Allspark was destroyed there was a need for a new Allspark container.”

“I already know that,” Mikaela interrupted. 

“Listen,” Unicron replied, but the mild rebuke was without heat. 

“I wanted the new container to be sentient, to have its own initiative. After all, the old container was just an inanimate object and easy to control.” 

Mikaela trembled, but did not interrupt. 

“I wanted a human. What could be more chaotic than throwing another species into the mix?”

“Primus,” Mikaela whispered. 

“Yes, Primus. He could have fought me, but the ripples of that battle would have wiped this solar system from the universe. Instead, we came to an agreement. I would get my human, but Primus would have a say in whom.” 

“I thought the Allspark chose.” 

“Compatibility was a factor, yes. Even more important, however, was potential.” 

Mikaela saw a sharp claw brush past her eye as his thumb stroked along her cheekbone. 

“You’re doing such a wonderful job. So much chaos,” Unicron crooned, his low voice rumbling approval.

The attack on the warehouse. Mikaela’s growing distrust of Optimus Prime. Drift’s attack. Her running away. Everything negative that had happened to her from the moment she had met the Autobots flashed through Mikaela’s head. At what point would he be satisfied? Hadn’t she suffered enough to create his chaos? 

“Aren’t you worried about driving me away?” Mikaela asked faintly.

“That was not my doing,” Unicron rumbled, his huge voice strangely soothing. “Life is a struggle. In chaos there is potential.” 

Mikaela choked back a laugh. “You’re just a giant teddy bear,” she replied sarcastically. 

The deep rumble of Unicron’s chuckle rumbled through her bones; felt more than it was heard. 

“Why is the storm still over there when you’re here?” Mikaela asked quietly. 

“Because, that’s not me,” Unicron replied simply. 

Mikaela tried to shake her head, but Unicron held it still. 

“You are the Allspark. The gateway of life. You have a connection to all sparks, especially those who have passed through more than once,” Unicron explained, without really explaining anything. 

Mikaela tried to shake her head, but Unicron held firm. 

“I have to admit, I underestimated the Allspark’s influence.” With that last, enigmatic statement, Mikaela’s chaotic dream world dissolved into comforting blackness. 

***

A couple of hours into their vigil Mikaela finally woke up. 

“Drift?” Mikaela’s voice was thin and questioning. The room was dark, and there were too many biolights for Mikaela to easily make out which large figure was the one she was looking for. 

The one she needed. 

Drift shifted to his knees, moving closer so that Mikaela could see him easier. “Here.” 

Mikaela briefly struggled against the blankets covering her. The clothes she was sleeping in clung to her, damp with sweat. Mikaela ignored the tell tale dampness between her legs as she crawled out of bed and stumbled across the metal top of the berth. 

Seeing the desperation in Mikaela’s movements, Drift reached forward and carefully scooped Mikaela up and brought her close. 

Mikaela plastered herself against Drift’s middle, trembling but secure 

Drift took a blanket from the pile and covered Mikaela so that she didn’t get cold. 

He looked up as Ratchet ran another scan across Mikaela. 

Underneath the blanket Mikaela also looked up. “Ratchet?” she asked, her voice hushed. 

The commotion was too much for the sleeping Ironhide, who made an incoherent complaint and rolled over on his berth. 

Drift felt Mikaela startle, burrowing herself, if possible, even closer. Her EM field, as basic as it was, made Mikaela’s confusion and uncertainty clear. 

“Turn off your audio sensors.” Ratchet snapped at Ironhide. 

:She’s physically fine. Her reaction is most likely due to whatever happened during her dream,: he commed Drift and Optimus. 

Ratchet’s irritability reassured Mikaela, and she calmed slightly. “Ratchet?” she asked again. 

“Yes, it’s me,” Ratchet said grumpily — in the way that Mikaela knew actually covered real concern. “Optimus Prime is also here.”

Mikaela froze with the stillness of prey trying to avoid the attention of a predator. 

Drift curled his arm between Mikaela and the other mechs. “It’s okay,” he crooned softly. 

Mikaela shook her head, uncertainty clear in her field.

“Optimus Prime said that it’s okay,” Drift reassured her, flicking a glance up at Optimus Prime. 

Optimus Prime recognized a hint when he was given it. “I meant what I said, Mikaela,” he reinforced Drift’s message, in a soft voice so that he didn’t disturb Ironhide more than they already had. “I want to mend the rift between us that my thoughtlessness has caused.” 

“Can you tell us what happened?” Drift asked gently, turning Mikaela’s attention back towards him. 

Mikaela shook her head, still uncertain.

Drift gently reached down and turned Mikaela’s face towards him, taking her attention off of the other two mechs watching. “Then tell _me_ what happened,” Drift’s voice was soft, but his words bordered on an order.

It was Optimus Prime’s turn to glance at Drift questioningly. 

Drift ignored him. 

“I...” Mikaela was clearly shaken as her first words came out with a stammer. “It wasn’t him this time.” 

“It wasn’t who?” Drift asked patiently, when it looked like Mikaela wasn’t going to elaborate further. 

“Primus,” Mikaela admitted softly. She didn’t look behind her, but she was acutely aware of every shift of the other two mech’s bodies. Mikaela could imagine their doubtful looks. 

“Who was it, then?” Drift pried a little further, glad that Ratchet and Prime had not interrupted thus far. 

“It was...” Mikaela’s voice trailed off. “Don’t be angry,” Mikaela pleaded in a harsh, urgent whisper. 

Drift didn’t like the sound of that. “I’m not,” Drift replied evenly, pushing out reassurance through his field. Whatever had happened, it was more than just the fear of Optimus Prime’s displeasure that had her disturbed. 

“Unicron.” 

Mikaela flinched as Optimus Prime startled, even as she kept her eyes on Drift’s understanding face. Would he push her away?

“I imagine he was... intimidating,” Drift replied dryly. 

A short bout of manic giggles burst from Mikaela, even as she covered her mouth to try to muffle them. 

“So, what is the dread chaos bringer like in real life?” Drift asked lightly, as if he was just asking Mikaela’s opinion of a newly arrived mech instead of the demon of Cybertronian religious mythology. 

Slowly, Mikaela opened up under Drift’s patient questioning. 

Optimus watched the entire exchange carefully, both to document what was said, as well as to wonder how a mech with Drift’s patience and control also built the reputation that Deadlock had. As Mikaela referred to other encounters that she had clearly shared with Drift previously, he also became more determined to get Mikaela to trust him again.

Mikaela talked until her voice was hoarse and she swayed with exhaustion. Ratchet looked like he was ready to tackle Drift to let Mikaela get more sleep when Mikaela finally went limp, still leaning against Drift’s abdomen. 

With slow steady movements Drift transferred Mikaela back into her bed, a procedure that he had clearly performed many times before, before looking up at the other two mechs. :She needs to sleep now,: Drift said, with just the faintest hint of dismissal in his voice. 

Optimus Prime nodded. :Let us know if either of you need anything in the meantime,: he replied as he stood and moved towards his own berth. There was still time for him to get at least half a night’s sleep. 

Or so he thought, until Ratchet pointedly forwarded him a copy of his schedule for tomorrow with half of his on-duty shift switched to off-duty. Then asked him if he would like a sedative. 

Optimus took the hint.

Drift unhooked his swords and laid them down next to him. It wasn’t time for him to recharge, but after what she had just been through, Mikaela would sleep more soundly next to him, as they had back in the warehouse. 

Sleep did not come so easily to Optimus. He had too much to think about. 

Eventually, Optimus sent a connection request to Drift. 

Drift replied promptly. 

:As the mech who is closest to Mikaela in this situation; do you truly believe that Mikaela is speaking to Primus?: Optimus asked. It wasn’t an easy question, and probably unfair for him to ask. 

:What I believe is not important,: Drift replied after a moment. :What is important is that Mikaela believes it is. Besides, if it is not Primus, who is it?:

Optimus idly thanked Drift and closed the conversation, rather than pull the other mech into the theological quagmire the Prime was wrestling with. Eventually, keeping in mind Ratchet’s looming displeasure, Optimus resorted to a quick code string to force himself asleep. It wouldn’t be the best quality sleep, but it was better than a wrench to the helm.


	6. Sentinel and the Decepticons

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning: Chapter contains Sentinel Prime. Tags have been updated.

“Mighty Megatron!” 

The voice was mocking, scornful, and not Starscream’s. Only Starscream was allowed to call him that.

Megatron’s face contorted with a snarl as he pistoned his hips harder into the mech below him. 

“I’ve had better rides from a pleasure drone!” Sentinel taunted, blunted fingers clawing at Megatron’s chest.

At Sentinel’s goading, Megatron redoubled his efforts. He not so secretly hoped that the force would dent Sentinel’s plating, but from experience he knew that primes were built to a higher standard. 

Still. 

Megatron hoisted Sentinel’s legs up over his shoulders, leaning forward on his hands so that he could get better leverage to push. The fact that it forced Sentinel to fold almost in half was a small bonus. It also pinned the mech's damn hands between them. 

Megatron didn’t like the fact that it placed his face almost intimately close to Sentinel’s, but if it got the red bastard off quicker, it was a small price to pay. 

Megatron gritted his teeth as his charge ramped up at the moist stimulation of Sentinel’s valve. His interface systems struggled to contain the charge. Coming before Sentinel, or leaving him unsatisfied, would gain him a sure punishment. Fortunately, he could feel Sentinel’s own lust rising, the static in the air hinting at imminent discharge. 

It couldn’t come fast enough. 

The snap of Sentinel’s overload was enough to trip Megatron’s. The large mech roared as he thrust one last time, holding tight to Sentinel as he pumped his transfluid into the red bastard. 

As soon as he could trust his leg struts to hold him, Megatron stepped back. 

Sentinel grunted as Megatron allowed his legs to fall unceremoniously to the floor.

“Soundwave!” Sentinel bellowed, turning so he could put his sore legs up on the berth. Despite his taunting, it had been millennia since Sentinel had been stranded. Alone. In stasis. Though he didn’t show it, the prime was still recovering.

In response to his master’s call the silent mech stepped out of the corner that he had been standing in.

“Clean me!” Sentinel demanded. The prime didn’t move as Soundwave withdrew to the private washrack attached to Megatron’s chambers and returned with a damp towel. As Megatron showered Soundwave delicately cleaned and polished his master. 

“Megatron!” Sentinel called out, waving Soundwave back. 

Soundwave obediently stepped back into the shadows, his task done. 

Megatron growled at having his shower interrupted. He dripped solvent on the floor as he walked across the berthroom — Megatron’s berthroom — back to where Sentinel reclined on the berth — Megatron’s berth. 

A demanding hand motion from Sentinel communicated to Megatron what the other mech wanted clearly enough. It had been millenia since he had been required to dance to Sentinel’s tune, but Megatron still knew all the steps. 

Megatron gritted his teeth even as he went down on his knees in front of his master and bowed his head.

Sentinel reached out and laid a possessive hand on Megatron’s helm. 

“It is time,” he intoned gravely, as if he was one of the great primes of old, “to put our plan into action.” 

Their plan? It was Sentinel’s plan, Megatron thought venomously. Not that Sentinel had asked him what he thought. Sentinel never asked anyone for feedback. Which is why Sentinel failed so often.

“But first,” Sentinel’s voice turned playful. A stark contrast to his previously bossy demands. “A reminder. To whom you really belong.” 

Sentinel’s chest plate clicked.

Megatron couldn’t help it. He looked up. 

Megatron hadn’t thought that it was possible for Sentinel to look more lecherous than he already did. But, with his spark light shining upwards, casting his face with an ominous glow, Sentinel looked like he wanted to eat Megatron alive. 

Unfortunately, Megatron knew the next step of this dance. His chest armor clicked open, the plates smoothly sliding away until his spark was bared as well. 

Soundwave, as ever, watched. 

***

“How it must chafe.” 

Megatron lit his optics with a grunt, irritated and too tired to pretend otherwise. Sentinel had already recovered and was starting to pontificate. Again. 

“Your enforced loyalty to Optimus Prime.” Sentinel spat the title, venom clear in his voice. “How unworthy he is of the title of Prime. Or of you as his Lord High Protector.” Sentinel’s voice dripped false flattery.

Megatron stared up at the ceiling and tried to ignore Sentinel’s bitter poison words. It didn’t help that Sentinel was repeating many of the same thoughts that Megatron himself had had. 

“I was driven from Cybertron by the Fallen. Stabbed in the back by my own ally,” Sentinel continued.

The only surprise to Megatron was that Sentinel hadn’t seen that betrayal coming. Then again, the Fallen had survived betraying the Council of Primes.

“Optimus, however, he abandoned Cybertron. And now he is here, protecting some pitiful race of organics instead of revitalizing his home world. He ignores his duty.”

While the merge didn’t give Sentinel insight into Megatron’s thoughts, it did give him insight into Megatron’s emotional state. Despite his failure to anticipate the Fallen’s betrayal, Sentinel had survived among the infighting of the Cybertronian Senate. Sentinel had also done his homework on the Decepticons before taking control of the movement. He’d read Megatron’s writings, the Decepticon manifesto, and used his understanding of them to pervert what the entire movement had stood for. Sentinel's goals had been close enough to the Decepticon cause’s goals that not many had noticed when the Decepticon cause had pivoted to Sentinel’s cause. (After all, the systems that kept the common mechs oppressed were, to a certain extent, many of the same systems that had kept Sentinel from exercising unchecked power. Namely, the Senate.)

Megatron had expected the war and the bloodshed. There was no other way that the senators and nobility would have given up their privileges voluntarily. Bloodshed was inevitable. Despite what a certain earnestly naive newly-chosen prime had thought. 

Optimus had talked Megatron down, had made him look beyond his class and accept stewardship of the entire planet.

Then it had all gone wrong. 

Cybertron was dying. And Optimus didn’t care.

“I will restore the glory of Cybertron!” Sentinel bellowed, too enthusiastically for somebody who’d just been thoroughly clanged. 

Sentinel’s goal had always been to break the Senate’s control and bring Cybertron under his sole rule. Killing Optimus had been a secondary goal, as Sentinel thought it would be easier.

Now the senate was gone. All that remained was Optimus Prime. 

***

Breakdown was worried that Knock Out was avoiding him, and he was determined to figure out why. 

At first Breakdown had been afraid that he had done something to upset the red mech, but the avoidance had gone on too long. Between Knock Out’s high libido and his addiction to Breakdown’s worshipful praise, previous sulks had only lasted a day or two at the most. Usually, Knock Out would inform Breakdown (very loudly) how the larger mech had displeased him, Breakdown would beg for Knock Out’s forgiveness, and the two of them would clang the finish off of each other. (Followed by Breakdown polishing a satiated Knock Out until he shone.)

Knock Out wasn’t following the pattern this time, and Breakdown was concerned. What if this time he had really screwed things up?

Breakdown palmed the medbay door controls, but it wouldn’t open for him. That terrified Breakdown. The medbay doors were always open, because it was a bad idea to prevent wounded mechs from trying to get into the medbay. Except Breakdown now couldn’t get in.

The only conclusion was that Knock Out was hiding from Breakdown. 

Normally, Breakdown would just approach Knock Out when the other mech came back to their shared quarters to recharge. But he couldn’t even do that now. A few days ago Breakdown had received a berth change notification from Soundwave. The request had been filed by Knock Out. He wanted to move out of their shared quarters. His things had already been gone by the time Breakdown had sprinted down the hall to check.

Breakdown was despondent. He just wanted to know what he had done to displease Knock Out so that he could grovel properly (and maybe, possibly be forgiven).

The chime of a ship wide announcement broke Breakdown’s morose line of thought. Megatron would be broadcasting a message to the crew in five minutes, and everybody, on duty or not, was supposed to find the nearest viewpanel so that they could watch. 

Breakdown ended up having to stand in the doorway of the nearest breakroom because there were too many mechs already in the room, all waiting to see what Megatron had to say. It was the first announcement that Megatron had made since coming back to the _Nemesis_ after the failure of the last battle. 

“My fellow Decepticons!” The screen snapped on suddenly, showing Megatron in all of his formidable glory, standing in front of his command chair on the bridge. The Decepticon sigil was displayed proudly on the banner that hung behind.

Megatron let the spontaneous cheering continue for a minute before he raised his hand, calling for silence. 

“This is a momentous day. We have, in our hands, the means to take down the final remnants of the Primacy and defeat the Autobots!”

Megatron paused for a dramatic moment, and the camera panned backwards, showing a bound prisoner next to Megatron. Unusually, he was standing tall instead of cowed and on his knees, but Breakdown didn’t focus on that. 

Breakdown thought that the mech looked familiar.

“Sentinel Prime!” Megatron announced.

It had been more millenia than Breakdown cared to remember, but the mech looked exactly like the old holovids of Sentinel Prime. 

But, how could that be? Sentinel Prime was dead?

The cheers that spread across the _Nemesis_ were interspersed with murmurs as other mechs also came to the same conclusion as Breakdown had. 

“Sentinel Prime was long thought dead.” Megatron's voice turned mocking. “In reality, he was merely lost.”

A titter of laughter spread quickly. How stupid did a mech have to be to get lost and stay lost for millenia? More than likely the so-called prime had gone into hiding. 

“Optimus Prime will be forced to surrender, or witness the destruction of his mentor. In one blow, we will eliminate the last figureheads of our upper-class oppressors. We will tear down the final remnants of the system designed to keep us in darkness, in poverty, in starvation. WE WILL RISE!” 

The ship erupted in wild cheering as the screen went black. Swept along by the exaltation, even if only for a moment, Breakdown’s troubles with Knock Out seemed very far away.


	7. New Beginnings

The perimeter alarm going off was Optimus’ first warning that something had gone wrong. 

A Decepticon was attempting to enter the base. 

Optimus’ current meeting was ignored as he turned his attention to the Autobot comm network.

:Whoa, thats—!:

:Where, where, where, where...?:

Optimus turned to stride out of the administrative hangar, leaving Jolt behind to handle the politicians he had just cut off. He transformed, his wheels skidding sideways on the dirt until they caught traction on the tarmac and he was off, headed towards the main entrance where Mudflap was scheduled to be on duty.

:Don’t you dare...: Ironhide’s gruff voice rang across Optimus’ comms as the weapons master discovered that his commander was already ahead of him. As far as Ironhide was concerned, it was his job to leap into danger ahead of Optimus Prime. 

Not that Ironhide needed to this time. 

Optimus Prime, Sideswipe, and Arcee were the first mechs to arrive, only to discover an embarrassed Mudflap being lectured by Jazz. 

Sideswipe made a disgusted noise as he spun to a stop, throwing up extra dust in the dry desert air. 

Arcee reported that the rest of the base could stand down. There was no threat. 

It was just Jazz in a new paint job. 

Optimus Prime transformed, his gaze focused on Jazz. 

Jazz had run away from base several days ago. Why, Optimus didn’t know, but Optimus was used to the smaller mech’s irregular comings and goings. It wasn’t unusual for the head of special operations to be called away on urgent business.

Apparently, while Jazz had been gone doing whatever he needed to do, he’d found a new alt mode. Optimus couldn’t hide his interest. Whatever make and model Jazz had chosen had similar curves to his previous alt mode. The largest difference was in the colors. Instead of functional silver, Jazz had found a native paint pattern that more closely mimicked his preferred style: white and black with red and blue. 

To Optimus, he was beautiful.

Jazz finished lecturing Mudflap, dismissing the other minibot, only to realize that Optimus Prime was staring longingly at him. With a serious face, Jazz turned to face his commander (and lover). 

They needed to talk.

Ironhide, Skids, and Bumblebee arrived, sliding to a stop and kicking up even more dust. The flurry of movement snapped Optimus out of his daze.

“Ironhide,” Optimus Prime called, motioning towards Mudflap. 

Ironhide nodded. He’d take care of the situation, and of Mudflap. (Prime would be taking care of Jazz, if the focused look the larger mech was sending the freshly repainted mech was any indication.)

Optimus ignored the rest of the commotion as he and Jazz walked off side by side, deeper into the base. 

It was several minutes before Optimus dared speak. 

“Jazz—”

“Don’t,” Jazz said sharply, cutting off Optimus.

“I just wanted to—”

“Not here,” Jazz growled, skipping forward into a transformation that left him headed out beyond the residential center of the base, beyond even the practice areas and the weapons range. They needed somewhere quiet for this.

Jazz finally stopped on a slight rise. He waited in alt mode for several long moments before transforming and turning to face Optimus, who had already transformed and was patiently waiting for him. The look on Optimus’ face was open and vulnerable, in a way that he couldn’t be with any other mech.

“Jazz,” Optimus started to say hesitantly, ready to be interrupted again. “I know you’re disappointed with me.”

Jazz forced an ugly laugh. “Disappointed doesn’t begin to cover it,” he said bitterly. 

Optimus cringed inside. He had never wanted to disappoint Jazz. There were so few people who he could truly trust. He never wanted to lose that. 

“I made the best decision I could at the time,” Optimus said, trying not to sound defensive. He had made the best decision he could. Optimus knew Jazz would not have disagreed, but Jazz had just died, and Optimus...

“The best decision? The best decision!” Jazz’s voice was sharp as fractured glass. He threw out a hand, pointing in the direction of the hangars. “That was your best decision?” 

Optimus felt like he was falling. He felt like he was dying all over again. He felt like when Megatron had first turned on him, first attacked him. 

He clearly deserved it again.

“It wasn’t the outcome that we had hoped for, but we still managed to keep the Allspark out of Megatron’s hands,” Optimus said, explaining his actions that day. Explaining why he had done what he had done. 

Hopefully, Jazz would forgive him.

Jazz, however, looked startled. “Mega... what the fuck does he have to do with this?”

“When the tide of battle turned, when you sacrificed yourself to give us the time needed to flee with the Allspark... I couldn’t,” Optimus admitted. He had held the guilty secret close to his spark since the battle of Mission City. At the time, he hadn’t wanted to leave the battleground where his... where Jazz’s body had laid, still warm among the wreckage. 

A mech he loved killed by another mech he still loved, despite everything. 

Optimus’ hesitation had cost them everything. 

“My hesitation cost us the Allspark.”

Optimus had expected Jazz to yell. 

He hadn’t expected silence. 

Optimus risked a glance at the smaller mech, and witnessed a look of sheer bewildered anger contorting Jazz’s face. His confidence plummeted even further. He wondered if Jazz would repudiate him for this. 

Instead—

“Whoa, time out,” Jazz declared, raising his hands in a T-shape. “I’m angry at you, and it sounds like you know I’m angry at you, and you’re assuming why I’m angry at you, and I’m assuming that you know why I’m angry at you, but it turns out we both lost the thread of this conversation a long time ago, so let’s just start over,” Jazz explained in a tumbled rush of words worthy of Bluestreak.

Optimus stopped to contemplate what Jazz had said. His emotional protocols were pushing at him to soothe his concubine and restore harmony to his household. 

“Jazz, I’m sorry—” 

A slash of Jazz’s hand cut Optimus off again as he tried to apologize. 

“As much as I like you grovelling at my feet, first you need to know why you are grovelling at my feet,” Jazz said sternly. He pointed to the ground in front of him. “Sit,” he ordered the large mech. 

Optimus obediently dropped to the ground and folded his legs. Sitting, he was much closer in height to the standing minibot. 

“Now,” Jazz said, “ _what_ are you apologizing for?”

“I am apologizing for failing to protect the Allspark, thus rendering your sacrifice during the battle of Mission City meaningless,” Optimus said past a sudden lump in his throat. The guilt rested heavily on his conscience. 

“You... that... gaaaah,” Jazz threw his hands up in the air and turned, angrily stalking away a few steps before turning back around. “That’s not... no...” 

Jazz suddenly stopped moving, stopped speaking, and visibly gathered his composure. 

After several long moments Jazz opened his eyes and stared steadily at Optimus. 

“I knew that we were in an unfavorable position, and that in most scenarios we wouldn’t win. We couldn’t win. The fact that any of us made it out of that clusterfuck alive, with or without the Allspark, was a miracle,” Jazz said, his voice even through sheer force of will. “I’m not angry at you for that.” 

“But—” Optimus started to say, before cutting himself off. He paused, expecting Jazz to stop him or to interrupt him. Jazz just shrugged questioningly, so Optimus continued to explain. “We have experienced so much death. So much loss. We have lost friends, comrades, and... others close to us on the battlefield. Every loss has pained us, but we have moved on for the sake of peace. For a restored Cybertron. When you died,” Optimus’ speech stumbled for a moment. He reached out unconsciously, as if to touch Jazz’s face, before realizing what he was doing and dropping his hand. “When you died, I lost the will to fight. I just couldn’t... We needed a way to keep the Allspark away from Megatron, and I... I wanted to die. To cease to exist, to join you in the Well,” Optimus sounded lost. Megatron was not dead, but for Optimus he had been effectively missing for four million years. Jazz... without Jazz...

“That... I...” Jazz swallowed. He was emotionally scoured by Optimus’ honest, raw emotional outpouring. That powerful voice, the same voice that had rallied mechs to the banner of the Autobots, had bent all of it’s persuasive power upon him, and Jazz was humbled. 

Still... “I’m not worth—” Jazz started to say, but this time it was Optimus who interrupted him. 

“You are. You have always been worth it,” Optimus declared, as if it was a simple fact of existence. Because for him, it was. 

“And you’re a suave son of a bitch,” Jazz replied. His flare of anger was subsiding in the face of Optimus’ earnestness, but it was not forgotten. “That’s not what I’m angry about, but I’m gonna accept your apology otherwise you’ll just keep brooding over it rather than listening to what I have to say.” 

Optimus perked up. “You forgive me?” 

Jazz nodded. “I forgive you. But!” Jazz held his hands up for silence as Optimus started to open his mouth to speak. “That is NOT what I’m upset at you about.” 

Optimus blinked at Jazz. “You’re upset with me?” he asked plaintively. 

Jazz grimaced. “I am.” 

Optimus deflated, losing a bit of the confidence he had just regained. “I’m listening.” 

“Are you?” Jazz gave Optimus a disbelieving look. 

Optimus nodded resolutely. 

“Okay.” Jazz gathered himself and stood squarely in front of Optimus. 

“I,” Jazz pointed to himself, “am upset with you,” he pointed to Optimus, “because you tried to hide things from me.” 

“I didn’t hide anything,” Optimus denied. 

“The debrief I was given when I woke up had some rather conspicuous omissions.” 

“Like what?” Optimus asked, confused. 

“Drift,” Jazz stated.

“Everything about him was included,” Optimus protested. 

“Funny. While the debrief did mention that Drift was interrogated, it doesn’t mention that you are the one who interrogated him, and that you failed. It also doesn’t mention that you ended up raping him, or anything about the damage that he sustained,” Jazz stated bluntly.

Optimus reared back as Jazz’s field lashed out at him with all of the mech’s chaotic emotions. Love. Hate. Fear. Hope. Denial. All of that, and a dozen others all swirled around the smaller mech, buffeting at Optimus’ trained control. 

“I...” Optimus was lost for words. Again.

“Did you leave that out hoping that I wouldn’t find out?” Jazz asked. The tone of his voice was sharp. 

The accusation stung. Optimus knew what Jazz had been though. He now realized how the situation appeared to the smaller mech. “No,” Optimus denied, “that wasn’t why.” 

“Then why?” 

“I suppressed the information because I didn’t want people to react to Drift differently. You know how cruel mechs can be to a victim, especially when the perpetrator is highly ranked.”

Jazz flinched backwards, but didn’t say anything. He knew. 

Optimus felt bad for picking at up old scars, but his thoughtless actions had already ripped them open again. “I never considered that you might come back to life and read those records.” 

Jazz snarled. The days he had spent away from the base — away from Optimus — hadn’t been nearly enough time to allow him to stay entirely objective now that he was face to face with Optimus. But Jazz also couldn’t deny the truth he could feel underlying Optimus’ words. 

To the rest of the Autobot army, Optimus Prime was solid, unshakeable resolve and decisive action. Optimus Prime was a strong leader to be looked up to. 

Jazz’s Optimus, on the other hand, was just a mech who did stupid stuff like any other mech. 

“I am also upset that, after I woke up, you avoided me for days,” Jazz gritted out. 

Optimus didn’t have any defense for that. After all, he had avoided Jazz. “What do you say to somebody who has been resurrected from the dead?” he said helplessly.

Jazz gave a single, dry laugh. “I don’t know, what did they say to you?”

“A lot of shouting.” Optimus saw Jazz’s wry look, and knew that the mech had jumped to the wrong conclusion. “We were in the middle of a battle with Megatron and his forces. I immediately stood up and started shooting. Ratchet’s yelling didn’t come until afterwards.” 

The look on Jazz’s face was complicated. He was obviously struggling with something. 

“I just... I don’t know if I can trust you, and I don’t like feeling that way,” Jazz admitted. Optimus was his leader, and his lover, and for all that the two roles should stay apart, the reality was that they never really did. Jazz needed accurate information in order to do his job as the head of special operations. As Optimus’ concubine, he was also entitled to know what went on in Optimus’ household, of which Drift was apparently now a member.

“I’m sorry,” Optimus said, finally reaching out one hand to cradle the side of Jazz’s face. 

Jazz curled inward, towards Optimus.

After a few minutes Optimus cleared his throat. “Not to sound like a desperate pick-up line, but bonding would help mitigate that feeling. If you still want to.” Optimus’ voice was hopeful. 

Jazz looked indecisive for a moment, and Optimus’ heart sank. Normally, Jazz wouldn’t have hesitated. 

Jazz wanted to bond so badly. He wanted to curl up close to the warm glow that was Optimus. But he didn’t...

Jazz shook his head, throwing off that thought.

Optimus started to pull back, but Jazz grabbed at his shoulders, stepping closer. With a subdued click, Optimus could hear Jazz’s internals shifting and rearranging in order to uncover the smaller mech’s spark chamber. 

Hoping that he wasn’t misreading the situation, Optimus triggered the same protocols in himself. 

Rather than erotic, the renewal of their strained bond was comforting. In the dust of an alien planet was not where either of them would have chosen to be for this, but it was where they were. And, as long as they were together, they were strong. 

Optimus leaned into Jazz, who leaned into Optimus. Jazz could feel Optimus’ guilt and regret on the surface, underneath which was the solid foundation of purpose that underlaid and drove everything the large mech did. 

Optimus could feel the quicksilver emotions of his ever-adaptable half. Spy, sabetur, lover, beloved. 

Not that it was all light and warmth. There were shadows of hurt and misunderstandings, of dirty deeds done and emotional pains inflicted by other people. It was the complicated background of two lives lived. 

_We need to do this again._

Optimus groaned as Jazz’s words reverberated soundlessly against Optimus’ spark. Inside the bond there was no individual — there was no Optimus, there was no Jazz — instead, there was us and we, and it was good. 

_You say that every time._

Optimus’ voice was lightly teasing, but it didn’t hide the spark-deep streak of need that drove his comment. 

_Doesn’t mean it’s not true._

Jazz responded impishly, his essence wrapping tendrils of self around Optimus’ self. Promise rippled through his field as he sought out Optimus’ lips.


	8. Giggly

“Hey Ratchet!”

Mikaela never thought that she would ever describe Optimus Prime as giggly. 

Dignified, sure. 

Imposing... Majestic... (Asshole...)

But giggly? Never. 

Mikaela couldn’t deny that it looked good on him, though. Made Optimus look more... human, for lack of a better word. More normal. Like somebody you could hang out with. 

Like Optimus had been before Diego Garcia. Before whatever had happened in Egypt.

Optimus Prime stood in the medbay doorway, trying not to lean against the much smaller mech standing next to him. Mikaela didn’t recognize who the other mech was, but he took nearly being squashed by Optimus Prime with amused grace.

It had been the smaller mech who had called out to Ratchet.

Ratchet turned towards the two with a thunderous look on his face. “Where have you two been?!” 

Whatever had made Optimus so giggly was apparently contagious, because the smaller mech clutched at Optimus Prime’s leg in order to stay upright as he burst out laughing. “That’s our Ratchet!” the unknown mech crowed triumphally. 

Ratchet just sighed at the two nitwits. “Get in here before you fall on top of some _body_ or some _thing_ breakable,” he said crossly, striding ominously towards the two mechs. 

Drift stepped lightly as he discreetly closed the large hangar doors behind the two mechs. The rest of the base didn’t need to witness Autobot commanding officers acting like a pair of love-struck fools. 

“Oops,” Optimus Prime intoned solemnly, then giggled again at the alarmed look on Ratchet’s face. 

Mikaela glanced at Drift for guidance, not knowing what she should be doing. The white mech just shook his head and discreetly sat down on the floor. (It didn’t escape Mikaela’s notice that Drift was now closer to her than he had been before.) 

“Nobody’s screaming,” Ratchet commented with dry humor, in response to his Prime’s inappropriate and uncharacteristic joke. “On the table,” he ordered with a jerk of his head.

“You want a piece of me, doc?” the smaller mech joked as he vaulted easily onto the medberth. Fortunately for Mikaela, who was sitting at the head of the berth, the small mech had cat-like reflexes, and the berth didn’t even shake. 

“You are very cute.” Optimus Prime nodded in agreement as he sat down on the floor next to the medberth, leaning against it so that the two mechs could continue cuddling. 

“I prefer stylishly suave.” The white and black mech struck a pose before slumping sideways against Optimus Prime, nuzzling the other mech’s cheek as if he wasn’t paying attention to anything else in the room. 

“Your sap is curdling my energon,” Ratchet grumbled. “Now. As you’ve probably figured out from the few hundred messages I left for you, I need to check both of you to make sure you didn’t strain anything.” 

“You insult my berth skills?” the smaller mech said indignantly, sitting up straight.

“I never underestimate the stupidity of my patients,” Ratchet said dryly. “I’m also going to use you as a demonstration model for Mikaela. Granted, that is, if you are willing to allow Mikaela and Drift to sit in on the examination.” Ratchet’s tone of voice implied that neither mech would dare to decline. 

“That’s fine with me,” Optimus Prime rumbled serenely, while the other mech just nodded.

Permission granted, Ratchet addressed the smaller mech, “Jazz, open up.”

_So, that’s who he was,_ Mikaela thought. His size was just about the only thing that the mech in front of her had in common with the smooth talking silver mech she had met briefly before he’d died. That, and his visor, which he flipped up to give her a quick wink before flipping it back down. 

“Aww Ratchet. Moving a little fast for a first date are we? We barely met,” Jazz replied teasingly. Nevertheless, Mikaela could hear his chest click as plates started to slide to the side. 

Optimus Prime swallowed a laugh, badly. 

“She probably already knows more about your spark than she wants to,” Ratchet pointed out.

“Oooh, way to kill the mood,” Jazz said with a grimace at the reminder.

“What mood was that?” Mikaela asked, standing up and dusting off her jeans. 

Jazz turned to look at her as if she’d grown two heads. Mikaela wondered what she’d done weird this time. 

“Ya understand us?” Jazz questioned seriously, leaning towards Mikaela. 

With a start, Mikaela realized that, while her question had been in English, the mechs had been speaking Cybertronian. And Jazz didn’t know that she knew Cybertronian.

Well, he knew now. “Yep. Got a problem with that?” Mikaela responded challengingly. 

“Nope.” Jazz leaned back. “Might want to keep mum ‘bout it though. Being underestimated comes in handy,” he drawled cordially.

“Jazz!” Optimus Prime half-heartedly rebuked the smaller mech. “Stop being so paranoid.” 

“Sorry, professional habit,” the black and white mech said brightly, but insincerely. 

Mikaela scoffed. She could name half a dozen instances from before when knowing Cybertronian would have been helpful. As far as she was concerned, Jazz’s idea was a smart one. 

Ratchet harrumphed, drawing Mikaela’s attention, and he waved her towards Jazz. 

What happened after that was quite mundane as far as lessons went. Ratchet proceeded to point out various internal structures, using Jazz as a living anatomical model, and lectured Mikaela about the nature of sparks. Interestingly, he chose to do his lecturing in Cybertronian, having Mikaela restate what he had said back to him in English. Ratchet then added more detail or clarified as needed. Mikaela wondered if this was going to be a continuing trend. It certainly seemed to make Ratchet less impatient when he didn’t need to translate every concept into English first. 

Jazz, on the other hand, was hardly a model patient. He twitched when Ratchet poked him, snickering and making the occasional suggestive comment. Eventually, Mikaela decided to try something, and climbed on top of the squirming mech. Jazz froze, unwilling to hurt the fragile human. 

Ratchet seized his chance, and, with a curt order to Mikaela to stay where she was, he continued with Jazz’s health check. 

Eventually, even Ratchet had to admit that he couldn’t find anything wrong with Jazz, and helped Mikaela down.

“If that’s it?” Jazz exclaimed, springing off of the medberth as his panels slid smoothly back into place. He’d spent more than enough time in the medbay catering to Ratchet’s paranoia. 

“No,” Mikaela snapped. The mechs in the room looked at her in surprise. “I might not know what you did, but I think you need to apologize to Drift.” 

Mikaela knew _something_ had happened a few days ago between Jazz and Drift. Unusually, Bumblebee had interrupted her physical therapy and quickly rushed her back to the barracks, and Drift had been too disconcerted when they’d arrived, even though he had tried to downplay the situation for Mikaela.

At the time, Mikaela hadn’t pushed.

Mikaela noticed how Optimus Prime’s attention now turned towards Jazz. Not that he had been ignoring the mech, far from it. But the attention he was giving Jazz now was more serious than the half-playful touches they had been sharing before. 

“What is she talking about, Jazz?” Optimus Prime asked. 

“I confronted Drift about the Drift-sized holes in the debriefing packet you gave me,” Jazz explained smoothly. “You weren’t talking to me, so I had to get the information from somewhere.”

“When I came in you had your cable out, ready to jack in, and Drift was on the ground in front of you with his panels open,” Ratchet added, his voice carefully even, so it didn’t seem as if he was taking sides. (Even if he was, because nobody messed with one of his patients while they were still under his care.) “Exposing his wounds created an alert that called me to the scene.” 

It took a moment for what Ratchet had said to register with Optimus Prime. 

“Is this true?” Optimus Prime rumbled gravely. 

“Yes,” Jazz said unrepentantly, “I needed information. Given the fact that Drift clearly had some kind of leverage over you, the Prime, and given the fact that you elevated him to a position in your household, a position that answers only to you — _or to Megatron_ — I had more than enough reason to believe that he might not be truthful when questioned, so interrogating him was appropriate. Also, as a defected Decepticon, to be available for questioning at any time is a requirement of his parole.”

Jazz looked at the human who, standing on the medbay berth, towered above him. “I can’t apologize for doing my job.” Because, as distasteful as the entire scenario had ended up being, it was Jazz’s job to root out spies and double agents, verifying the loyalty of any Autobot when needed. In cases where Jazz had incomplete information, he had to go find that information, despite any inconvenience or embarrassment (or mortification) it caused the mech involved. 

Optimus slowly blinked, a very obvious sign for how taken off guard he had been by Jazz’s rebuttal. He hadn’t even considered the fact that the guard answered to Megatron when he had proposed Drift’s new position. 

“I don’t believe you,” Mikaela insisted stubbornly. 

“I believe it,” Drift countered softly, seeming to appear over Mikaela’s shoulder as if out of nowhere. “In his place, I would have done much the same.” Deadlock hadn’t been a member of Decepticon special operations, so he wouldn’t have been the first choice to conduct an interrogation. He was too straight forward. But he could, if needed. He’d been in command, and knew the weight of what was involved.

Drift also knew how much a commander could get away with under the excuse of meeting those responsibilities. The bit of humiliation he had gone through with Jazz was minor in the grand scheme of things.

“I don’t like it,” Mikaela protested, looking up at Drift. She was dismayed by how he was seemingly defending his harassment.

“I don’t like it either,” Drift said soothingly. “But Jazz did nothing wrong.”

“He hurt you,” Mikaela insisted stubbornly, as if it was all the reasoning she needed.

But Drift could hear the resignation creeping into Mikaela’s voice. So, he changed tactics. 

“My little protector,” Drift crooned, holding his hand out next to the medberth. 

Mikaela stepped trustingly off of the berth and onto his hand. 

Drift brought his fingers up in a gentle cage. “So fierce,” he said admiringly. 

Mikaela looked fearlessly up at her protector and bared her teeth in response. “You know it.”

Jazz couldn’t believe that the girl standing in Drift’s hand was the same being that had resurrected him. It was so easy to forget when dealing with her. Compared to the great mass of the Allspark cube she was small... fragile. Unconvincing.

But Optimus was convinced. 

If that was true, what that meant for them — Autobots, Decepticons, or Neutrals — was not yet known. Unlike Optimus and the others, Jazz had barely interacted with Mikaela before. She had just been a side character, a potential manipulation point for the boy that they had been hunting, nothing more. 

During their countless aeons of war organics had occasionally been allies, and occasionally enemies to the Autbots. As a group, organics could be formidable. But now Jazz realized that the survival of his planet, and of his race, might rest on the shoulders of this one small organic. And the realization was terrifying. 

The Allspark was gone. 

This girl was the Allspark.

Jazz didn’t know what this meant. He wasn’t one for religion or philosophy. Even Optimus clearly didn’t know what it meant. 

Optimus Prime shifted uneasily, and Jazz was also reminded that Drift was now a part of the Primal household. As was he.

“I apologize.”

Startled, Mikaela turned to look at Jazz. 

“I apologize for any distress or discomfort I caused Drift.”

“I accept,” Drift said graciously. 

Mikaela didn’t seem happy with the apology, but she didn’t contradict Drift. Next to Jazz, Optimus Prime’s field evened out again.

Jazz gave Drift a toothy grin. “I’ll even help you take out Turmoil if you want,” Jazz offered with a bloodthirsty edge. Offering to deal with scum like that wasn’t even a hardship.

“Thank you for your offer, but Turmoil is already dead,” Drift replied evenly, keeping his body language towards the higher-ranking mech neutral. 

“Really,” Jazz replied doubtfully. “According to the latest files I have, Turmoil is still alive and well.” The question _‘how are you better informed than Autobot intelligence?’_ was implied in Jazz’s tone. (He couldn’t entirely help it. By now, paranoia was a well-worn habit.)

“Ratchet has his body.”

Surprised, Jazz turned in the direction of the storeroom that Ratchet used to store dead bodies (which, up until recently, had included Jazz).

Ratchet strode across the medbay to the storeroom, unlocked it, and wheeled out the sole remaining body. It was a gruesome sight. 

“So, that’s the body that ‘Screamer and his friends took a side trip to drop off with us?” Jazz commented. When he’d first ‘woken up’ he’d been too busy realizing he was alive that he hadn’t paid attention to the other body in the room.

The gray frame was well and truly slagged, the skeletal remains burnt out and twisted. Whatever brand the mech had worn had been vaporized in the assault. The cause of death was pretty obvious, though. Jazz was willing to bet that the hole that had been punched through the center of the mech had been caused by Megatron. He could understand why Ratchet had assumed that the mech may have been an unknown Autobot casualty. 

“You know who that is?” Ratchet asked Drift skeptically. With rank markings, IFF transponders, and just about every other method of identification thoroughly destroyed, the body was damned near unidentifiable. At this point, in order to be able to identify the body, Drift would have to rely on internal characteristics that were normally hidden under a mech’s plating.

“Yes,” Drift replied. “That’s Turmoil.” 

Ratchet stared, then shrugged. “I have no reason not to believe you,” he said, picking up a pad from his work table. “In that case, you can fill out the paperwork.” 

Drift suppressed a sigh and took the pad from Ratchet. Even the death of an enemy combatant generated paperwork that had to be recorded, filed, and archived. Drift was unfortunately familiar with the process, from both sides of the war.

Mikaela sat perched on Drift’s shoulder, having climbed up so that he could more easily work on the pad in his hands. Her position gave her a panoramic view of the body on the table. Mikaela was somewhat disturbed that she _wasn’t_ more distrurbed by the sight. She reminded herself that this had been a person, but looking at the body had just about as much emotional resonance for her as looking at a wrecked car. Maybe it was just because she’d never known the mech in question.

Maybe it was because Drift hadn’t liked him.

“Why didn’t you want me to raise Turmoil?” Mikaela asked. Her question fell into the quiet silence of the medbay like a pebble into a pond. Again, she was the focus of attention. 

Drift froze. He didn’t look up from the pad as he replied. 

“Turmoil is not a mech who would be grateful for a second chance,” Drift said, his voice carefully neutral. 

Drift didn’t mean it to sound like a threat against Jazz. However, the unintended trap that Mikaela’s innocent question had set for him left him with little choice. Not answering Mikaela would be just as suspicious as any reason he gave. No matter what he said, to the mechs listening it would sound like he could determine Mikaela’s — the Allspark’s — actions. If they saw that as a threat to their own power...

“So, why did you give me a second chance?” Jazz asked, morbidly curious. He didn’t know which one he was asking, Mikaela or Drift. Though Mikaela was the one who had the power, Drift obviously had some level of control over Mikaela, as Jazz had suspected. Jazz snuck a look at Optimus, who was curious, but quiet. Did the mech understand the risk he had taken by leaving Mikaela in Drift’s custody?

“I almost wish I hadn’t,” Mikaela replied snarkily.

“Mikaela.” Drift’s disapproval was subtle, but easily understood by the mechs in the room as well as Mikaela. 

“I said almost!” Mikaela protested. 

Drift gave her a look. 

Mikaela looked away. “You were noisy. You wanted out,” she explained sulkily. “And Optimus was an asshole.” 

“So you raised me for what?” Jazz asked. “Revenge?” He was driven to understand why.

Mikaela scoffed. “They didn’t think I could do it.” 

“That’s not exactly what happened,” Optimus protested delicately.

“Close enough,” Mikaela snapped back.

“Mikaela,” Drift’s even voice cut through the tension building in the room, “count to 10.”

Mikaela frowned, but did as she was told. She pulled up her legs so that she could sit cross legged on Drift’s shoulder. Then, she closed her eyes and, as far as Jazz could tell, pretended like there was nobody else in the room. 

Jazz would process all the implications later, but for now he was just in disbelief that he’d been raised from the dead by a youngster trying to prove a point.

“Do you know why Megatron would have killed Turmoil?” Optimus Prime asked, not so subtly changing the topic. 

“Do you want the list in alphabetical or chronological order?” Drift said with a bare trace of humor. “The real question is, why did Megatron choose to kill Turmoil now?”

“What do you mean?” Jazz leaned forward, eager for new insights into Decepticon command relationships. 

“In private Megatron hated Turmoil, and disapproved of his command style. Yet, in public he said nothing. If Turmoil got in trouble with his superiors, Megatron intervened to make sure Turmoil only got a slap on the wrist, if that,” Drift explained. “I could never understand it, and Megatron refused to talk about it, even with me.”

“Sounds like Turmoil had something on the ol’ slaghead,” Jazz drawled.

Drift didn’t disagree. He’d thought the same, one upon a time. But Turmoil was dead, and bringing up the past wouldn’t help Drift. 

Except...

Drift hesitated for a moment. He didn’t like to admit this. It didn’t put him in a good light. However, it was instrumental to why he left the Decepticons, and it was the best reason for the Autobots to believe that his loyalties had changed. 

“When Megatron assigned me to Turmoil’s command, we were the same rank, so we’d have to work together. I thought he had done it so that I could straighten Turmoil out. To make him a proper Decepticon.” 

Drift’s smile was humorless. “Needless to say, I was a thorn in Turmoil’s side. He complained to his commanding officers. The issue was kicked up the command ladder until it landed in front of Megatron.”

Drift felt Mikaela’s hands on his neck and on the side of his face. It was probably her effort to comfort him. 

“I assumed Megatron would take my side. I was wrong. I was demoted and formally placed under Turmoil’s command. After that, Turmoil didn’t need to hold back any more.”

“Megatron threw you away,” Jazz stated.

Drift nodded. He understood that the small mech probably wasn’t trying to rub acid in the wound, but that was what it felt like.

“Why’d Megatron get rid of you?” Jazz probed further.

“I don’t know,” Drift replied. He’d spent long sleepless hours going over every word, every action that had happened between the two of them in the run up to his transfer, and he hadn’t been able to pinpoint anything noteworthy. “Megatron... he never told me.” Drift didn’t believe the reason that Turmoil had given him; that Megatron had become tired of Deadlock and wanted him gone. Drift knew Megatron better than Turmoil ever had, and he was sure that Megatron wouldn’t do that to him. 

But Megatron had.

“And you expect us to believe you?” Jazz asked skeptically.

“Jazz!” Optimus said in sharp rebuke.

Drift shook his head with quiet sadness. “That’s what I know. Beyond that, it’s all supposition and guesswork.” He touched the back of his head. “You can check.”

Drift could feel Mikaela’s outrage, but she held her tongue as Ratchet came to Drift’s defense instead. 

“You will do no such thing,” Ratchet said, his voice clipped with anger. “There’s been too much amateurish fucking around with Drift’s cortex recently. You aren’t touching him until I’ve cleared him medically.” Ratched favored Jazz with a gimlet eye. “And a _very_ good reason.”

“You’re the boss,” Jazz held up his hands in surrender to the CMO. He wasn’t stupid enough to challenge Ratchet on his own turf. Besides, he could always talk to the other mechs on base to get more information first. 

“If I’m clear, I’m just gonna let you get on with that.” Jazz said, sliding towards the exit. He had a little ‘Bee to chase down.

Ratchet waved the smaller mech away. 

“Not you,” Ratchet snapped as Optimus Prime made a move as if he was going to stand up and leave with Jazz. He pointed one finger at the large mech. “On the table,” he ordered. 

Drift watched discreetly over the top of the pad as Optimus Prime meekly followed his Chief Medical Officer’s orders.


	9. First Steps

“Open up.” 

Ratchet’s voice reminded Optimus that, despite all the heavy topics that had just been discussed, this was still a medical checkup. And Ratchet was waiting for him to bare his spark. 

The electromagnetic wash of medical scans tickled his sensors, more than powerful enough to tell Ratchet everything he needed to know, even through battle-grade plating. But Optimus knew that the medic wouldn’t be happy until he was able to see for himself. 

Feeling self-conscious as the focus of attention, Optimus glanced to the side as his plating slid back, only to quickly turn back towards Ratchet. “Can you put away the body?” he asked. The proximity of Turmoil’s grayed out frame was highly distracting.

Ratchet waved distractedly towards Drift. “Can you take that into storage for me?” he asked. “And leave Mikaela here.” 

Drift subspaced the pad he had been working on and gently lowered Mikaela from his shoulder to the medberth. He then turned and wheeled the cart containing Turmoil’s body away, back to the storage room. 

Optimus’ attention remained focused on Ratchet as the medic studied him — or rather, his spark — with a serious look on his face. 

“See here,” Ratchet started to lecture Mikaela. “If you look at the delta wave variations in the southern hemisphere of the lateral...” 

Optimus tuned out the rest of what Ratchet was saying. He’d heard it all before. Instead, Optimus focused on the strange sensation of being an observer as well as the observed. It was similar to what he imagined it would be like to be a specimen under Perceptor’s microscope. 

Suddenly, Optimus’ attention was caught by the feeling of a slight weight climbing up his hip and onto his thighs. He looked down to find that Mikaela had climbed into his lap, of her own accord. 

Optimus hadn’t expected her to get so close. Not this soon. 

“I see what you mean,” Mikaela commented in reply to something Ratchet had said. Mikaela put her hands on the edge of the opening of Optimus’ chest and leaned forward so that she could get a better look. 

“You shouldn’t,” Ratchet said, sounding surprised. “Those wavelengths are outside of human perception.”

“Well, I’m not really human any more, am I?” Mikaela answered with a grim certitude. She gestured towards Optimus’ spark. “It’s hard to explain. I see it, but I don’t. I know it’s there, I can see it’s there, but I can’t see it.” Mikaela made a frustrated sound as every attempt she made to explain what she could perceive so clearly sounded increasingly nonsensical. 

Ratchet didn’t doubt that Mikaela believed that she could see it. If they’d had a proper, fully stocked base, he would have had the mechs and equipment he needed to investigate Mikaela’s new ability. For now, he could only accept her word, and ascribe it to the Allspark’s influence. 

Mikaela, meanwhile, was entranced. Jazz’s and Optimus’ sparks were the first that she had seen in person, outside of the illustrations in her medical text. It shone so brightly she almost wondered if she should be looking at it or, if like the sun, staring at it too long would damage her eyes. 

But it didn’t hurt. 

Mikaela stared into Optimus Prime’s spark, and saw the damage that Ratchet had described. To her it looked like an oil slick marring the surface of a pond. Pretty, until you realized what damage it caused. 

Mikaela stretched, reaching upward into the cavity of Optimus’ chest, pulling herself closer to his spark.

Abruptly, Mikaela was pulled backwards and up, away from Optimus’ chest. She squeaked as she was deposited unceremoniously on Drift’s shoulder, the white mech having returned soundlessly during Ratchet’s lecture. 

Mikaela could tell distantly that Drift wasn’t happy about something. But she couldn’t stop looking at Optimus’ spark. 

It captivated her. 

It drew her in.

Drift stopped Mikaela just before she walked off the edge of his shoulder armor. 

:What’s wrong?: Optimus asked on an open, short range comm line. 

It was Ratchet who answered first. :She’s acting unusual.: Ratchet stepped forward, taking a moment to recalibrate his sensors for human biology. 

:I can see that,: was Optimus’ terse reply.

:Let me handle it,: Drift asked the other two mechs, forestalling Ratchet’s advance. 

Ratchet and Optimus watched as Drift turned his attention to Mikaela.

“What do you sense, Mikaela?” Drift asked quietly, steadily, drawing on his previous experience with handling Mikaela during one of her visions. 

“There’s something there,” Mikaela said in a distracted voice. She leaned forward against Drift’s hand, still trying to get physically closer to Optimus, despite the fact that she risked falling from Drift’s shoulder. 

:If you are done, may Optimus Prime close his chest?: Drift asked Ratchet over comms. 

Optimus triggered the transformation sequence to close his chest before Ratchet could respond.

As the glow of Prime’s spark was hidden behind layers of armor, Mikaela relaxed.

Drift picked Mikaela up off of his shoulder and cradled her in his hands so that he could see her more easily. It also had the advantage of putting the other two mechs behind her, removing them from her field of vision.

“What did you see?” Drift asked Mikaela. 

“There was something there,” Mikaela explained.

Drift could see that Mikaela’s eyes were hazy and unfocused, like she was seeing something beyond the physical. “What was there?”

“Potential,” Mikaela said after a long pause.

“What do you mean ‘potential’?”

“For more.”

“What is more?” 

Mikaela’s mouth moved as she tried out different words silently, not liking the fit of any of them. “Everything,” she settled on.

Drift could feel Mikaela’s growing frustration. “Can you explain further?” he pushed just a little bit more. 

Unfortunately, the dreamy otherness that had overtaken Mikaela was slowly melting away. Mikaela stiffened as she realized that she and Drift were not alone. 

“Please, there is no need to be worried because of me,” Optimus Prime said soothingly, correctly identifying the reason for Mikaela’s sudden silence. “I would like to help you understand.”

“I just...” Mikaela bit her lip. She didn’t turn her head. She didn’t want to see Optimus staring at her — into her. 

“For somebody who just about had her hands wrapped around his spark, you’re awfully shy,” Ratchet said trying to break the tension with ill-timed humor.

“Ratchet,” Optimus said disapprovingly. 

Ratchet held up his hands up defensively. “Just saying that there’s not much closer a mech can get to another mech.”

“I‘m not a mech,” Mikaela mumbled, her voice rebellious.

“Thank Primus for that,” Ratchet exclaimed irreverently. “I’m not sure I could keep up if you were.” 

As unconventional as it was, Ratchet’s strategy worked — somewhat. Mikaela was smiling, albeit slightly.

“Normally the only people who would see, much less be allowed to touch, a mech’s spark would be their medic or their lovers,” Drift explained gently. 

It took Mikaela a moment to connect what Drift had said with what Ratchet had implied. “Shit!” Mikaela exclaimed, concerned. “I groped Optimus?” she asked, almost afraid of the answer. (She might not completely trust him, but that didn’t mean that she hated him.)

“Almost,” Ratchet said with humor. He could tell that Optimus hadn’t been upset by Mikaela’s innocent curiosity. 

“I’m so sorry.” Mikaela curled inwards as guilt assailed her.

“Mikaela,” Drift said, his voice low and commanding, demanding Mikaela’s attention. 

Mikaela looked up, and Drift directed her gaze towards a patient Optimus Prime. 

“I took no offense,” Optimus said reassuringly. 

But Mikaela still looked rattled. 

“Please, don’t be afraid,” Optimus continued, conscious of Mikaela’s recently revealed fears. He extended a hand in her direction, slowly, so as not to startle her. “There was no harm done.”

Mikaela peered up at Optimus for a few long seconds, before standing up in Drift’s hands. 

Optimus held his hand steady as Mikaela stepped into it. He cupped his other hand around her in order to keep her safe as he pulled her close. 

“It is not unusual for close friends to share such intimacy,” Optimus explained gently. “And I consider you a close friend, if you would accept me.” He extended his field in a soothing complement to his words.

“Isn’t it sexual?” Mikaela asked warily. 

“It can be,” Optimus acknowledged with a tilt of his head. “However, in the same way that a hug from a friend is different than a hug from a lover, it very much relies on the context, and the feelings of those involved.” 

“So, I didn’t rape you?” 

Optimus blinked at Mikaela’s blunt question. “No, you didn’t. Even if you had made contact, you still would not have. It would have been unexpected, yes, but not a violation.” 

Mikaela breathed a sigh of relief, relaxing into Optimus’ cradling hands.

However, with that settled, Mikaela’s mind soon turned back to a concern that she had thought of while Ratchet had been lecturing her about Optimus’ spark strain. “The bond between you and Megatron hurts you,” Mikaela stated curiously. “Why?” 

Optimus rocked backwards slightly, as if reluctant to talk, and Mikaela almost retracted her question, but Optimus spoke first. 

“Not many Autobots would be eager to listen to me talk about my relationship with Megatron,” Optimus said slowly.

“I’m not most Autobots,” Mikaela pointed out.

“Indeed,” Optimus replied with a trace of a smile. “The bond between Megatron and myself is different than most. We have a guardian bond.”

“Like Bumblebee was to Sam,” Mikaela commented. Like Drift and herself, she wanted to say, but held her tongue. 

“Not exactly,” Optimus corrected gently. “Bumblebee was Sam’s protector, but they were not bonded.” 

“Was that because Sam was human?” Mikaela asked curiously. Drift had mentioned the bond that existed between bonded guardian and charge, but he had never asked her to bond with him. Mikaela sometimes wondered if it was because she was human. Not that she thought Drift was xenophobic, but maybe it was impossible to humans and Cybertronians to bond. She hadn’t asked Drift before because the relationship had been too new, and her feelings for Drift too nebulous for something that permanent. But, now that Mikaela had gone too far down the rabbit hole with the Allpark, Primus, and Unicron, she was afraid that she would be told that it was impossible for her and Drift to bond. If that was the case, Mikaela didn’t know what she’d do.

“Bumblebee tried to bond with a human once before, but it didn’t work,” Optimus said vaguely. “He wasn’t forthcoming about the details.”

Ratchet held up his hands as Mikaela turned to look at him, her curiosity plain on her face. “I don’t know why, and it was before I was around. However, if you decide that you want to try to bond with Drift, I have no objections. I just insist on being there. In case anything goes wrong.”

Mikaela glanced over her shoulder at Drift before turning back. “We’ll let you know,” she said noncommittally. 

“You never said why your bond with Megatron is hurting you,” Mikaela said to Optimus.

“Because Megatron and I are at odds, we have not renewed our bond since the beginning of the war,” Optimus explained sorrowfully. 

“In order to renew the bond, you need to merge sparks with Megatron?” Mikaela guessed. 

“Exactly,” Optimus confirmed. “Many times I have reached out to Megatron in an attempt to negotiate a temporary ceasefire so that we could renew our bond. I had hoped that, in doing so, I could talk to him and convince him to end this tragic war.”

Optimus looked up at Drift — Megatron’s former concubine. “Why did he never...?” Optimus’ question died on his lips as he noticed that Drift was absently rubbing at the plating above his spark. 

“I don’t know,” Drift answered, his words clipped and short. “I do know that he wants you with an almost obsessive passion.”

“He seems to have channeled that passion into trying to kill Optimus on the battlefield,” Ratchet replied sarcastically. 

“Yet Optimus Prime isn’t dead,” Drift shot back.

“You have a low opinion of Prime’s skill,” Ratchet countered.

“I have an intimate knowledge of Megatron’s skills, and his emotions,” Drift responded.

“Megatron killed me.” Optimus Prime’s usually resonant voice was strangely flat. It cut through Ratchet and Drift’s brewing disagreement. “But only after I’d killed him first.”

Ratchet recovered from the interruption first. “You didn’t kill Megatron,” he argued. “Samuel was the one who —”

Ratchet wasn’t able to finish his sentence. Optimus’ sorrow-filled expression stopped the words in his throat. 

“I gave Sam the idea,” Optimus replied hollowly.

While Ratchet continued to argue with Optimus Prime, Drift was trying to hide his growing apprehension. For millions of years he’d lived with the fact that Megatron, for whatever reason, would not kill Optimus Prime, no matter how many openings he’d had to do so. Drift had completely forgotten that Optimus Prime had been reported as dead. But, by the time Drift had been given that report, the Prime had been alive again. It hadn’t seemed real that somebody who was so central to the war had been suddenly gone. 

Like Megatron had been. The realization crashed over Drift anew, driving home the realization that he hadn’t processed everything that had learned as much as he thought he had.

That wasn’t important now. Instead, Drift needed to bury any reaction he had to Megatron’s death and make sure that he didn’t make such a mistake again in front of the Prime. 

Drift bowed and stepped back, symbolically conceding his previous argument to Ratchet. Not that the other mech noticed, being busy arguing with Optimus Prime.

Mikaela, however, didn’t want to talk about dead Primes, she wanted to talk about bonds. Her raised voice cut through the tension. “What about Drift, doesn’t he have a bond with Megatron?” 

Drift wanted to wince at the undiplomatic question. While it was true that he had been the one to tell Optimus Prime about the bond’s existence, it wasn’t the best idea to keep reminding the Autobots that he had a lingering bond with the leader of the Decepticons. It might give them second thoughts about his loyalty.

“I do,” Drift answered. “It is not, however, the same type of bond as that between Optimus Prime and Megatron. It does not hurt me.” At least physically it didn’t, not in the same tangible way that Optimus Prime’s and Megatron’s sparks were strained by their separation. The pain caused by Megatron’s betrayal that clawed at Drift’s spark was emotional, not physical.

Drift realized why Mikaela was asking all of these questions, some of which he had already told her the answer to. 

Mikaela was worried about him, and she was worried about their bond. 

That realization gave Drift a decision to make. He already knew what Ratchet’s position was regarding his status as a bonded guardian. Meanwhile, Optimus Prime had approved of him remaining Mikaela’s guardian, although without knowing about Drift’s status as a bonded guardian. However, Optimus Prime was bonded to his own bonded guardian (which was technically legal, because he was the Prime, even while Megatron’s existence was technically illegal, which was a tangle of legal loopholes and knots that could keep a team of lawyers busy until the stars burned out). 

Despite all of that, the decision Drift needed to make was actually very simple. 

Did he trust Optimus Prime?

Drift had been inside of Optimus Prime’s head. While he was still struggling with the emotional aftermath of what Optimus Prime’s actions had caused, the situation had given him a golden opportunity to go waltzing through the Autobot leader’s head. (If Jazz ever realized just how much Drift had gleaned from Optimus Prime, the Spec Ops commander would probably strategically assassinate him.)

If Drift also took into account that he was bonded to the Allspark reborn, and that Optimus Prime couldn’t afford to piss off the Allspark?

It was a risk, but he’d taken larger ones before.

Drift reached out, a silent request for Mikaela to return to him, which she did, stepping off of Optimus Prime’s hands into Drift’s.

“I didn’t want to alarm you,” Drift admitted to Mikaela.

The look on Mikaela’s face was puzzled. 

She’d figure it out soon enough. 

“Our bond. That’s what you really want to ask about, isn’t it?” 

Mikaela flinched in an instinctive reaction. 

Still within reaching distance, Optimus got the full brunt of Mikaela’s churning emotions skittering across his field. “Peace,” he said soothingly, pushing out reassurance in return.

Ratchet made an amused noise as he realized what was going on. “Optimus knows how to keep a secret.”

Drift relaxed minutely at Ratchet’s words. 

Mikaela turned to face Ratchet. “What do you mean?” 

“With your permission?” Ratchet asked Drift.

Drift inclined his head in assent.

Ratchet turned his attention towards Mikaela. “Drift’s bond with you has not been consummated, yet his systems know that he has found the one he will protect. It seeks to complete the bond, but the two of you have not merged. This conflict pulls at his spark.”

Mikaela had questions. So many questions. “So I can’t bond with Drift?” she asked, afraid of the answer.

“I don’t know,” Ratchet said honestly. “I have never heard of a bonded guardian with a charge who was not Cybertronian.”

“Bonded guardians are illegal,” Mikaela stated bluntly. 

Ratchet nodded reluctantly. 

“What will you do?” Mikaela asked, turning towards Optimus.

“Officially, I know nothing about Drift’s status as a bonded guardian,” Optimus Prime replied soothingly. “Just as I know nothing about any other Autobot who might be a bonded guardian.”

Drift couldn’t let Optimus Prime’s claim stand without challenge. “I know of at least six Autobots who defected to the Decepticons because their commanding officers discovered they were, or had the potential to be, bonded guardians,” he stated, his voice skirting the edge of accusation. “If you don’t agree, why not change the law?” 

“I don’t have the absolute power you credit me with,” Optimus Prime replied sorrowfully, all too aware of his shortcomings. “While the Senate is dead, and the civilian government subsumed by the military, there are factions that exist that could challenge my right and force me to seal my decision. I am unable to do that.” 

When challenged, a Prime needed to be able to seal their decision using the Matrix of Leadership. It was the ultimate proof of their position, and of their Primus-given right to rule. A Prime without the Matrix did not have the right to lead.

“Because you don’t have the Matrix of Leadership,” Drift said. 

Optimus looked startled. “Who—”

Drift’s gaze dropped to his hands, and the woman standing there. 

Optimus followed Drift’s gaze and sighed. “The Allspark told you,” he said resignedly. 

“The Allspark has a name,” Mikaela retorted tartly.

“I’m sorry, Mikaela,” Optimus replied.

“If you need to show off the Matrix of Leadership, why don’t you just use that one?” she asked, pointing at Optimus’ hip where, unknown to most, Optimus kept the Matrix that Sam had picked up in Egypt. 

“You would know about that as well,” Optimus commented resignedly. He pulled out the — impossible, or so he had been told — second Matrix of Leadership. It hung in the air above his palms, glowing softly.

Optimus basked in the light of the Matrix for a few, intense minutes. The feelings it invoked were bittersweet. This was not his Matrix, and it did not welcome him as such. However, it’s presence caused him to recall memories of the short time he had spent with his own Matrix, as well as the agonizing memory of tearing his Matrix from his own chest.

Mikaela held out her hand. 

As if summoned, the Matrix floated down to hang in the air in front of her. Mikaela gazed deep into the Matrix and saw flames. 

Optimus soon retrieved the Matrix and returned it to its hiding place. 

“This is not my Matrix,” Optimus said sadly. 

“Not like they would know that,” Ratchet pointed out pragmatically. 

“They would know,” Optimus said, his tone of voice warning Ratchet not to push the topic. 

“That’s enough for today,” Ratchet declared, cutting short the discussion. “You’re good. Or, at least as good as you ever get. You can go now.”

“Mikaela, you stay,” Ratchet said, his voice softening as he turned to his protégé. “I’m sure you have more questions.”

“And close the door after yourself!” Ratchet’s voice thundered after Optimus as he left.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, lockdown sucks. I'm gonna try to get back to a more regular schedule with my fanworks, because trying to write a book is going nowhere. (However, I have taken up cross stitch, and it's going well.)
> 
> Anybody interested in a James Bond/Transformers crossover with SpecOps!Mikaela? (The plot bunny keeps gnawing on my ankle.)


End file.
